


Night Gathers

by lonevvanderer



Series: Night Gathers [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate season 8, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys Targaryen needs a hug, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Jaime Lannister Redemption, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Not A Fix-It, Not an everybody lives AU, POV Arya Stark, POV Cersei Lannister, POV Daenerys Targaryen, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Jon Snow, POV Multiple, POV Sansa Stark, POV Theon Greyjoy, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Protective Arya Stark, an update schedule?? I don't know her, but at the same time sansa sympathetic, i'm trying to do everyone justice here, kinda anti-Sansa, may I PLEASE reiterate this is NOT a fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-19 12:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 77
Words: 135,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonevvanderer/pseuds/lonevvanderer
Summary: ~~~“I’ve heard many stories of the Targaryens, good and bad, brave and sly. My favourite tale was of Visenya, Aegon’s sister-wife. She was a warrior who protected her king and kingdom with her heart and her sword. But my mother would also tell me of Aerys, who butchered my grandfather and uncle for his own pleasure.” Arya knew her history, far better than the average noble. “But which one are you, Your Grace?”For the first time in a while, Daenerys was at a loss for words. She had not expected Jon’s sister to be so brazen in her approach. Nevertheless, it was a difficult question. She was not her father, she hoped, desperately. The men she had killed in Essos had been slavers and warlords, butchers of innocents. But neither could she claim to be Queen Visenya, for she had rarely seen battle, and could not even wield a sword.So, what answer to give?“I am neither, Lady Arya. I am Daenerys Targaryen.”History would decide which of her titles would define her. Mother of Dragons? Breaker of Chains? Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Or perhaps just another failed claimant to the Iron Throne?~~~*A reimagining of Season 8*





	1. Daenerys I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If they want to give you a name, take it, make it your own. Then they can't hurt you with it anymore."

_It is far too cold_, Daenerys thought. Even the strong winds of a coastal Dragonstone had never bitten into her skin like this. The blizzard, combined with her bright white coat and horse, made it impressive that Jon could even see her from a few paces behind.

She missed the heat. The coarse sand underneath her feet as she and her Unsullied liberated the Bay of Dragons, the sun as she stood on her balcony overlooking Meereen. This land was too cold and too bitter for a Dragon Queen. With nought around of significance to gaze at, Daenerys surrendered to her own absent thoughts. Jon had caught up to her then, shouting over the harsh wind.

“Welcome to the North, my Queen!” He beamed.

Daenerys rolled her eyes. They had entered the North several days ago, landing at White Harbor, but the snows were only light there and the climate nowhere near as harsh. Aboard the ship, Jon had talked of his home, of its green summer forests and rolling hills, but she had yet to see it.

“The North is harsh, my Lord, I imagine it’s people will be the same?” She asked. Jon’s smile faded slightly at her words, and Daenerys does not need any other response. “I am their Queen. I do not need their love, only their respect. I’m here to save them, not to tuck them into their beds at night and sing them lullabies.”

Those she brought across the Narrow Sea would show her more love than a million northerners, no matter what she does. Daenerys’ mask of the Dragon Queen dropped, if only for a second, but long enough for Jon to see.

“They will love you, Dany, just as I do, but they’ve been through a lot at the hands of the South. My siblings most of all. Give them time… then they will come to see you for what you are” Jon said quietly, wary of those around them that may hear.

Daenerys wished she could be more open around Jon, but she knew that the Northerners would just see her as a seductress if she did. She smiled back, and they continued to ride in silence side by side.

Slowly, the horses came to a stop and the group dismounted to set up their camp for the night. They were not far from Winterfell, but the blizzard was tiring out far more than just the horses. Daenerys wearily entered her tent and sat, not even pausing to take in how unnecessarily luxurious it was. Her hand, Tyrion, was not far behind.

“I pray the journey is not too hard on you, Your Grace?” He asked, but she knew he was not here to check on her wellbeing.

“Whatever you need to ask, Tyrion, ask it now. I wish to retire.” She snapped.

Tyrion had become increasingly frustrating since their time on the ship and she was beginning to grow tired of his cryptic conversations. Tyrion hesitated and looked back to the large tent opening, where she knows two loyal Unsullied stand guard.

“Jon Snow…” Daenerys internally groaned. This was to be a lecture. “He is fond of you, My Queen.”

He seemed to expect a response, his eyes blank as they stared back at her, yet she continued to watch him in silent judgement. “Do you believe this dalliance of yours to be wise? You have not even considered any other su-”

“And which suitors might they be? Euron Greyjoy? Jaime Lannister? As far as I'm aware every other male heir to a great house is very, very dead.” She interrupted.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t burned alive Dickon Tarly you would have had another option!” He snapped back.

She did not expect such a venomous reply from her Hand and she immediately dismissed him from the room with a harsh wave of her hand. It was a rash action but she was too tired to deal with him at this moment. Dickon Tarly refused to bend the knee, and he willingly died at his father’s side. She did not make exceptions and Tyrion should bloody well know that by now.

As Tyrion bowed and left the room, his face bitter and weary, he was replaced by another figure. Her hair was a deep brown that poorly cut yet practical. Daenerys stood, ready to call for her Unsullied, but the dark brown eyes of the woman made her pause. She looked like Jon.

“My name is Arya Stark of Winterfell. The King in the North’s sister.” The woman said. “You’re Daenerys Targaryen”.

Daenerys nodded, unable to grandstand in the face of Arya’s icy gaze.

“I’ve heard many stories of the Targaryens, good and bad, brave and sly. My favourite tale was of Visenya, Aegon’s sister-wife. She was a warrior who protected her king and kingdom with her heart and her sword. But my mother would also tell me of Aerys, who butchered my grandfather and uncle for his own pleasure.” Arya knew her history, far better than the average noble. “But which one are you, Your Grace?”

For the first time in a while, Daenerys was at a loss for words. She had not expected Jon’s sister to be so brazen in her approach. Nevertheless, it was a difficult question. She was not her father, she hoped, desperately. The men she had killed in Essos had been slavers and warlords, butchers of innocents. But neither could she claim to be Queen Visenya, she had rarely seen battle, and could not even wield a sword.

So, what answer to give?

“I am neither, Lady Arya. I am Daenerys Targaryen.”

History would decide which of her titles would define her. Mother of Dragons? Breaker of Chains? Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Or perhaps just another failed claimant to the Iron Throne? Arya’s glare intensified at the title but appeared satisfied with her answer for now. She bowed and left without another word, leaving Daenerys alone with nought but her thoughts and the sound of the howling wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like many GoT fans out there, I was enraged by the writing and outcome of the show. I'm not writing this because I'm claiming to write the 'best' or 'real' version of the ending. This is just my imagination running wild on what could have been different. So yes, there is some fanfiction wishlist shit in here (I've kept to a minimum), but this is game of thrones, so not everyone is getting a happy ending. 
> 
> As you can see from the first chapter, I'll be incorporating some of the better aspects of the season into the fic, and other cases tweaking or just outright changing it. I've vaguely planned it all out but please let me know if there's anything you think would be interesting to see!  
The first chapter is short but will hopefully be getting longer as we delve deeper. I really want to explore the character's perspective on their own identities, especially those who aren't so clearly confused (*cough* Jon)
> 
> Constructive feedback (no matter how big or small) appreciated.


	2. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it."

Winterfell was buried in snow, the early morning sun beating down onto the crowds amassing around the castle. Sansa felt as if she had been awake for days, ensuring everything was right for the homecoming of her brother, and the arrival of the Dragon Queen.

She could not help but grimace at the thought the huge army arriving with the Targaryen, and her mind trailed to every outcome she could imagine. What would she be like? Would she be beautiful? Cold and mean? Stupid and trusting? Littlefinger had been one of her only sources of information on everything south of the Neck, and she felt uneasy about the lack of knowledge she had on the woman.

As she paced the Great Hall all she could hear was the bustle of people gathering outside. _They must be getting close_, Sansa thought, and as if right on cue a young guard tentatively approached to inform her of their sighting just over the horizon. Sansa steeled herself and made her way to the courtyard, just as she did all those years ago with the arrival of Robert Baratheon. The noise increases, the stomps of armoured boots and disgruntled horses filling the air, and Sansa became nervous.

She did not recognise the men that first enter the gates, clad in black armour and furs. She glares at the strangers in her home. A woman in white broke the sea of black.

_So this is her. Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains_. It would be a lie to say Sansa was not somewhat impressed at the sheer number of titles the woman had accumulated. How legitimate were they? Who had given them to her?

But it was not the Dragon Queen’s grace and beauty which irked her, but the awesome eyes of the men and women in her courtyard, and especially that of her brother. Jon had only ever looked moody and she was shocked to find him crack a smile at the blonde woman.

Irritated at her countrymen’s reaction to the woman, Sansa didn’t even notice when Daenerys dismounted her horse. Jon glided to the blonde woman’s side and approached, and joined the Targaryen as she walked up to her with the poise of Queen, but not as haughtily as Cersei once had.

“Sister, I would like you to meet Daenerys, of House Targaryen.” He added no other titles.

Sansa immediately noticed how tiny the woman is compared to her, with a soft face akin to a young girl’s. It was entirely possible that Daenerys was no more than a few years older than herself. Sansa curtsied, as she should, as her mother taught her to do, but it is short and Sansa regretted the action immediately. She should be defiant, she thought, to show this Southern Queen who the North should really bow to.

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.” It’s a lie, and Sansa said it through her teeth, but the action came so naturally to her now. Sansa maintained her icy glare at the woman, but this Daenerys is no fool and returned a polite, yet fake, smile of her own. The air became tense, and Jon floundered and sputtered until he decided to lead his Queen inside. Sansa waited a few moments before following behind them.

In a matter of minutes, the Great Hall of Winterfell was filled to the brim with the Northern Lords, most of whom had arrived upon being called to arms by her brother in a missive weeks prior. They were safe from the dead because of the Wall. Sansa thought the troops should be heading South instead, killing Cersei and securing the North’s independence once and for all, like Robb wanted to do. She cared little about who sat on that blasted Iron Throne, as long as they gave what she and the North deserved. _This Targaryen will not give us that_, she thought.

Jon sat in the central chair, just as Sansa had done for the past few months acting as Lady of Winterfell. He looked out of place, flanked by the two mean-looking women, his face sullen and bordering on nervous. He looked around, the Lords not yet ceasing their chatter, and sighed.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa spotted the small stature of Tyrion Lannister. He was looking tired and old, far different from the man she had woefully married all those years ago. He almost looked pathetic, Sansa pondered, Daenerys clearly must have had worn him down. She couldn’t even begin to think how he’d clawed himself into his current position, but this Dragon Queen must just have a short memory of the Lannisters.

Jon caught her disapproving glare and smiles. _What a fool_, she thought, _can’t he see we are surrounded by our enemies?_

“My Lords, I am thankful that you have all heeded my call.” Jon bellowed. “I am thankful you all understand that the North is under threat. Today… I have brought to Winterfell our greatest ally yet. I hope you are thankful for her too. Queen Daenerys and her dragons will help us to defeat the Night King, and I have agreed that once the Great War is over… we will fight for House Targaryen in her reclamation of the Iron Throne.”

At that moment, a few lords erupted in anger. Lord Glover looked as if he were about to draw his sword. They did not like the Targaryens when the Mad King was overthrown and they did not like them now. Sansa smirked. He had been away so long, so unused from politics. A King is not a commander, and you will not be automatically obeyed. She took the opportunity to speak.

“Jon, we have not sworn fealty to House Targaryen. You cannot expect our gracious lords to fight for their old enemy!” Sansa declared, which inspired grunts of approval from the lords.

“Daenerys Targaryen is not our enemy!” Jon shouted, frustrated, and Sansa saw that the Silver Queen was silently watching what he said next. “She is here to help us not get fucking killed by the Army of the Dead! I know you and some of the Lords wish for independence, but isn’t our survival more important than our pride?”

The hall quieted then. The Lords understand, they’re not that stupid. Sansa wished they were. Use the dragons and then send the Queen down south on her merry way. Not every deal needed to be upheld.

Sansa said nothing and simply stared forward towards the Lords, avoiding what she imagined would be the smug look on Daenerys’ face.

Daenerys stood.

“I am not here to conquer you, my Lords. I ask for your help, just as you asked for mine. I am not my father, I will not burn you alive for my amusement. This world is built by lasting friendships and bonds, bonds which my father broke in his cruelty… On behalf of House Targaryen, I apologise for the deaths of Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark, for the harm he caused to you all.”

The hall said nothing, but their faces were a sea of confusion and conflict, their expressions asking a million questions. Maybe she’s not like Aerys? Maybe she is different? But Sansa saw through it. _She’ll burn us all alive the second we say no_. Sansa wanted to seethe, to shout that the woman was lying, that she would ruin them all. But this was not the moment to strike, and so she held her tongue.

Jon stood, silently hoping that this would do for now, and dismissed the room. One by one, the Lords filed out, until just the three of them remained. Jon and Daenerys looked at her for a moment, expressions giving away nothing, and walked out the room side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lockdown in the UK sure does bore the mind, so might as well tackle this bad boy once and for. So far, I have ~40 chapters planned, if not more - and hopefully, they will all see the light of day!
> 
> Just to clarify, this is by no means an anti-Sansa fic. I will be transparent in saying that Sansa is certainly amongst my least favourite characters left standing at the end of season 7, but I do have respect for her character development. This is not to say I won't be recognising that Sansa hasn't become politically-minded, and that, at the end of the day, Sansa very much equates power with safety as a result of what's happened to her. I'm hoping to explore that - not just turn her into a bitch to oppose Daenerys and Jon. If this isn't what you're looking for, I apologise.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, the third chapter is already written and more to come soon!


	3. Theon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can a man still be brave if he is afraid?"

_The tweets of some little birds have been heard by my ear, Greyjoy. Your uncle does not dare risk an infiltration of his fleet, and so has shackled your sister in the dungeons of Lordsport. Her Grace sends gold with this letter so that you may acquire the resources you need to rescue a valued ally of House Targaryen._

-_ Lord Varys, Master of Whispers_

Fuck.

Theon had been to Lordsport many times, and the old him had often gloated at how well defended and armed the Greyjoy city was. He slumps in his chair at the sheer thought of trying to get Yara out of Lordsport terrified him, and he felt the familiar shake of his hand once again.

At that moment, Daris wandered into his quarters. The man was barely older than Theon but acted ten years younger. Part of Theon wished he could live as blissfully as Daris; the lad had barely ever left Pyke, and his father’s House tried to steer clear of the conflicts of Balon and Euron.

“Greyjoy,” Daris smirked.

“Pyke,” Theon replied.

The bastard boy of Lord Merlyn, with shoddily cut black hair, stood almost half a foot above Theon, but the childish grin on his face made any attempts to be intimidating disappear. Many of the other sailors would jab at Daris’ bastard status, but the bloody man was too friendly to acknowledge it. He sat on the large chair next to the fire, thin legs dangling over the arm, and looks straight at Theon.

“So… my dear Lord Greyjoy, we off to save our lovely Lady Greyjoy?”

“I’m not Lord Greyjoy, Daris. And I wouldn’t call Yara Lady Greyjoy unless you plan to lose your tongue mate” Theon said.

“Perfect! I’ll fit right in on Euron’s fleet,” Daris said with a wink.

“She’s not on Euron’s ship. She’s in Lordsport”. Daris visibly slumped. He, like Theon, knew how well guarded Lordsport would be, how many ships would be anchored on the shore. It would have been far easier to engage Euron in battle at sea and get to Yara from there. Euron wasn’t that desperate yet - he clearly trusted his men to follow his orders, out of fear or not.

Daris’ brow furrowed as if contemplating his options. _He probably is wanting to leave_, Theon pondered, but Euron had seen him during the sea battle months ago, so it was not like Daris could just up and switch sides. He would definitely lose his tongue in that case. Theon imagined the sight for a second, the blood pouring out of Daris’ thin mouth, and recoiled.

Theon finally rose from his seat with a sigh. He showed Daris the bag of gold sent by Queen Daenerys, but Theon hasn’t got a clue what to do with it. He can’t exactly hire mercenaries, and the bag was nowhere near enough to buy off any families to aid them. Theon turned to the map of Westeros sprawled across his desk and wished he could cry.

_Not in front of Daris_, he reminded himself. Any man here could sell him out to Euron and then Yara would be lost for good. As much as he wanted the Queen to mount her dragon and rescue his sister, he knew it was a stupid idea for the Dragon Queen to risk her life and armies for one woman, but he wished for it all the same. Daris moves to his side, his face serious.

“Well… let’s go find someone to fucking help us get Yara back then”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saving Yara in episode 1? FUCK THAT. That's right lads, we're having a side plot! Also, I felt like Theon needed a friend - so we have Daris Pyke, Iron Islands bastard and friend (?) to Theon.
> 
> Apologies for the super short chapter, hopefully, they'll be getting a bit longer as we get into it, but there's a case of establishing we're all of our guys are at.


	4. Daenerys II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A man who won't listen can't hear."

The walls of Winterfell were cold and hard, so different from the rooms in Meereen that she had been so accustomed to prior to reaching Westeros. Daenerys thought it was beautiful, in its own way. She liked the way the stones betrayed the age of the castle, the history that lay within. As she grazed the walls with her fingertips, she wondered whether the Red Keep would be the same. Whether she would unlock the histories of her lost family by simply grazing its walls. Viserys had always told her of their family’s past through rose-tinted glasses - she wanted to know about their struggles, their adversaries, the women who stood behind the Targaryen kings.

She felt so disconnected from them. She shared their looks and their blood, but the idea that they were her family seemed so foreign to her. The Red Keep was never her home. Her family never felt like home, Viserys certainly didn’t. It was useless to be stuck in the past, she wanted to be new, she had said so to Jon’s sister.

“Your Grace?” Jorah brought her out of her reverie. She glanced behind her then, her brave old bear had been adamant in guarding her as she walked between rooms. She had told him that it was not necessary, that one of her unsullied could fulfil such a menial task, but the sweet man was adamant. He would always protect her, she knew that.

“Before our arrival, I’d heard that an old friend of mine was here as well… I thought perhaps we could visit him?” He asked, a hint of a smile on his face.

Daenerys smiled at him, “Of course, my friend, do you know where he is?”

He chuckled then, “The library, as I expected.”

The library was not far if she had her bearings correct. She followed the winding corridors in front of her, half expecting to get lost. She allowed Jorah to walk ahead of her, eventually arriving at what was perhaps the oldest looking wooden doors she had ever seen. Jorah walked in, and she followed, spotting a dark figure carefully flitting between the shelves. The man, however, didn’t appear to be very observant.

Daenerys cleared her throat loudly.

The man almost fell over himself, dropping a heap of books in the process, quickly straightening himself the second he sees a flash of her silver hair. The poor man looked terrified.

“Your Grace, this is the man who saved my life,” Jorah grinned at him, “Samwell.”

Sam bowed and Daenerys returned a smile. “Ah yes, I’ve heard this tale. Thank you, Samwell. Ser Jorah is a valued friend of mine, I am pleased you helped him when no one else was willing,” Jorah had told her about the Citadel maesters who were content in leaving him to die, and it had angered her greatly. Samwell had stepped in, at great risk to himself. Perhaps not all men are cruel, she thought. She hoped. “Is there anything you desire as a reward?”

Samwell looked at her sheepishly and asked for a pardon. For stealing some books. Daenerys almost wanted to giggle at such an honest request but restrained herself to just a smile and a glance at Jorah. By the look in the old bear’s eyes, he felt exactly the same.

“Pardon granted, Samwell…”

“Tarly, your Grace!” He added.

_Oh._

Her heart sank, and her gleeful smile was wiped from her face. She had written to Lady Melessa and Talla Tarly to inform them of Randyll and Dickon’s deaths, but she had not known there was another son. The man was still beaming at her, but she knew she had to tell him, it wouldn’t be right otherwise.

“Samwell Tarly. You’re the son of Randyll Tarly, I presume?” Sam nodded in response, “I’m sorry to tell you that he died at the Battle of the Goldroad, he refused to surrender.”

His reaction was not too severe. She suspected that was perhaps not a close relationship, from what she gathered from Lord Randyll and his brashness before his death.

Samwell shifted the weight on his feet and twiddled his thumbs, “Oh. Well… I don’t know what to say, Your Grace. At least I can return to Horn Hill now, with my brother being in charge and all.”

“He stood with your father.” She had not wanted to sound so blunt, but how else could she tell him? Sugarcoating was for children, and none would grant the same kindness to her, at the end of the day.

Samwell’s eyes watered, his lip trembled, clearly distraught at his brother’s passing.

“You burned them, didn’t you?” His gaze was venomous now, a far cry from the elated eyes of the bookworm she had seen not two minutes ago. She simply nodded. She need not give him the gory details of their execution. When Samwell continued to glare at her, tears in his eyes, she spoke up, the desire to defend her action overwhelming.

“I offered them mercy, Samwell, to take the black, but they re-”

“I don’t want to hear it!” He shouted back. Jorah tried to move in front of her, but she placed a gloved hand on his arm and turned back to the weeping man.

“Lord Tarly, I gave them a choice. They made it.” She did not feel guilt over their deaths. Regret that Dickon had foolishly stood by his father? Perhaps. But not guilt. No, Cersei Lannister would have slaughtered her men without a thought, but she reached out and offered her hand to Cersei's. And they bit it off.

They both glared at each other for a moment, Samwell shaking with rage. _I will not be scolded by an angry librarian and his glare_, she thought. Grief does terrible things to people, she knew he simply needed time and the support to grieve. Away from her would be best.

Before she could say anything else, Samwell stormed out of the library without a word.

She sighed. Offer mercy and she was weak. Exact justice and she was just like her father. Combined with Sansa Stark’s bitter reception, Daenerys knew it could be impossible to please the North at all. The thought made her sad. She was there to help them, she wanted to help them! They were her people after all. Knowing her luck, this Samwell Tarly would tell everyone he can get his hands on about the ‘evil Dragon Queen who burns alive her enemies’. How would they ever love her if they wouldn’t understand that she was fighting her own war to the South, not just theirs?

Jorah turned to stand in front of her, a sad look on his face. Her old bear, _he knows exactly what I am feeling._

“Are you alright, your Grace?” His voice was quiet, wary of eavesdroppers and prying eyes. She looked at him sadly. Here she was, torn between the Queen and the woman yet again. Losing family hurts, she knew that all too well. But she also knew that there are consequences for your actions, and the Lord of Hornhill and his son gave her no other choice. How can the people she aims to rule love her if they see her as nothing more than a monster? Or worse, her father.

“I’m not my father.” She said quietly, dejected. She had not expected for Samwell to react so angrily, and it upset her.

“I know you’re not. Nothing could be farther from the truth, your Grace.” His words were kind, his voice soft. She desperately wanted to believe him. She desperately hoped the Northerners would feel the same. A part of Daenerys screamed that she had nothing to prove to them, that she needed no one but herself, but she knew the part was wrong.

“Then I will make them see the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, my name's Becca and I said fuck Samwell Tarly rights.
> 
> But to be honest, I did quite like this scene in Season 8, but then it sort of became a non-entity afterwards which was a shame.
> 
> Just to clarify (as there have been some unnecessary comments): THIS IS NOT AN EVERYBODY LIVES AU. I'm just playing around with where I think arcs could have gone - I'm not saying this is the 'true' ending.


	5. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Promise me, Ned, she had whispered.”

Jon had decided that he was annoyed. As such, he had retired himself to aimlessly slashing at a training dummy in the courtyard, just as he had done in his youth. The sun had already gone down, the chill biting the air harsher than before, but Jon didn’t mind.

Sansa’s cold reception to Daenerys had frustrated him. _ This was the woman that had tried to stop me retaking Winterfell from the Boltons so they could wait for help, and NOW she wanted to refuse the help? _ He could not get his head around it. So he continued to bash at the dummy, now destroyed beyond recognition.

“Careful, the dummy might have a family!” The voice was northern, deeper than he was used to but still dripping in the sarcasm he had loved as a child.

When he turned, Arya smiled.

She was older, though not much taller than when he had last seen her. Her face had not lost its soft features but her eyes, despite the smile, looked mean. Oh, how he had missed his sister. Jon dropped Longclaw unceremoniously and ran to hug her tight.

“I’m so glad to see you, Arya.” Jon beamed.

“Likewise, brother.” She said excitedly. She looked as if she were going to cry, but she blinked them away quickly before any fell. Jon looked down once he released her from his grip to see Needle secured proudly around her hip. He was glad she had kept it, he hoped it had protected her. He wished she hadn’t needed it, though.

Arya spotted his gaze and smiled, “The best gift I’ve ever received, Jon. Thank you.”

“It bloody should be, all you’ve ever received are dresses off Sansa and your mother!” They both laughed, and for a second it felt as if no time had passed at all. Perhaps if they were to turn around, they would see their father grinning from the balcony. But no, no one was there, not anymore. 

Arya's smile faded as she looked around and she quietly added to Jon’s thoughts. “I wish father were here. I miss him.”

Jon sighed in agreement. How many years had it even been? It felt like a different lifetime. Or maybe a dream. Ned had promised him he would tell him everything he wanted to know about his mother, and then he had died. Jon would never know, and his heart hurt because of it. He saw Sam out of the corner of his eye, awkwardly trying to get his attention. Arya looked at his friend annoyed, and Jon was inclined to agree. He had not seen his sister in years and now Sam wanted to steal him. When Jon continued to ignore him, Sam coughed loudly.

“What, Sam?” Jon glared.

“Jon, it’s important.” When Jon looked closer, he could see Sam shaking, his eyes angrily glued to the floor.

Arya smiled at him again and nodded her head as she leaves. He will see her again later, that much was certain. They were all home now. Jon picked up Longclaw and returned it to its sheath, grabbing the cloak that he had draped on the fence as he walked to Sam. Jon stared at him, expecting something urgent.

“Daenerys Targaryen burned my father and brother,” Sam said quickly.

_ That’s it? That’s not urgent, _Jon thought. He did not want to be insensitive - he too had lost his father and brother - but Sam had managed to survive the entire War of the Five Kings without losing a single family member. His friend was allowed to grieve, however.

“I know,” Jon replied, bluntly. Sam seemed startled then, at a loss for words. “She told me on our way to Winterfell.”

“And you didn’t tell her she was wrong?!” Sam raised his voice, causing a few servants in the courtyard to turn their heads.

“Sam, I understand it’s hard, I’ve lost family too. But no, I was not going to tell the Queen she was wrong, because she wasn’t. I killed Janos Slynt for disobeying me, and I’m not a king.” Jon’s voice was quiet, trying to not cause a scene in front of strangers. He really did not wish to lose his patience with his friend, but he would not let him so brazenly disrespect the woman who had come to help them, the woman he loved.

“Yes, you are,” Sam said, coldly.

Jon scoffed. _ Not anymore, I never should have been. _The Lords of the North named him their second Robb, and he had willingly given it away. Daenerys was the only ruler of the North now.

Sam dragged him by the arm over to the entrance of the crypts and down its old steps, Jon rambling behind. He did not let go of Jon’s arm until they were in front of the grave of Lyanna Stark. Jon was confused, irritated that Sam thought he could just drag him into the Stark family crypts. Nothing good came from those who entered without permission.

“Sam-” 

“Yes, you are,” Sam glared at him then. “This is Lyanna Stark.”

_ Does he think I’m stupid? I know some things! _ Jon thought, annoyed. He had been in this crypt more times than Sam had feasted on hot meals. Before he could interrupt, Sam continued.

“You are the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms because _you_ are the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen!” Sam looked triumphant, smiling at him.

Jon paused. Sam was still rambling, but Jon heard white noise. Everything hit him at once. Ned Stark wasn’t his father? His mother had lay below his feet his entire life? Jon’s heart shattered so violently he wondered whether Sam could hear it.

Sam looked at him expectantly, but Jon had nothing to say.

“Well?! This means Daenerys isn’t the Queen! It should be you!” Sam exclaimed.

_ The Throne? That’s what he cared about? _ Jon couldn’t even think. He was not a bastard. Arya was not his little sister. Ned Stark was not his father! He did not want a crown, only his family.

“I’m not Ned Stark’s son,” He said, dejected. Speaking it aloud hurt more. He had made it real. Jon wanted to cry, to hug the statue of the stone woman in front of him as if he were a little boy, and beg her to comfort him.

“Aren’t you going to take it, Jon?” Sam questioned, ignoring his worries.

“Are you fucking serious?” Jon said quietly. Everything he had ever known had disappeared like smoke, and Sam wanted him to take the Iron Throne? Sam looked back at him, his smile dropping slightly, his eyes slightly more fearful.

“Well, she’s a woman, so your claim is stron-” Sam began, but Jon tackled him to the wall before he could finish his treasonous comment.

“I don’t want to be the King, Sam! I didn’t even want to be fucking Lord Commander yet here we are, yet again, with Samwell Tarly here to put me forward!” Jon could not help the bitter comment, nor his rage at his friend. He needed someone to understand, to help him.

“She’s not fit to be in charge, Jon, she burns people alive when she doesn’t even have the authority to do so!” Sam cries, and Jon shoves him back into the wall again.

“So, what do you want me to do? Start a war against her and her dragons? Because that would work out! Perhaps I’ll put you on the frontline!” Jon had never been so angry, the hands wrapped around Sam’s throat shaking with fury.

“There doesn’t need to be a war!” Sam sounded like a child. Jon, in his rage, concluded that Sam was an idiot. A treasonous idiot. The man he called friend was nothing more than a snake, and he should have known.

When Jon replied, his voice was low and dangerous. “Sam, consider this a warning. Speak treason again and I will not stop Daenerys should she decide to burn you too. I know what you’re implying. You want me to depose her? I love her, Sam! I swore an oath to her! If she gets deposed, she dies! That’s how it works! Or are you too thick to realise?”

“Jon, listen to me!” Sam stuttered, desperate for Jon to calm down. Jon took a step back, removing his hands from Sam’s throat.

“My name is not Alliser Thorne. I will not betray the Queen, no matter how much you blubber in my ear.” Jon’s glare was full of fire, the love for his friend gone. “Get. out.”

Jon did not watch as Sam run haggardly from the crypt, but heard the man begin to cry as he reached the stairs. Instead, Jon looked again to Lyanna. His mother. Everyone had told him that Lyanna was beautiful, but the statue had been worn down through the decades, obscuring her features. 

Ghost entered then, whining, worried for him. _ I don’t even deserve a direwolf, I’m technically a Targaryen_, he thought sadly. His mind was drawn back to Daenerys then. He had sworn not to betray her, because he loved her. He loved his father’s sister. His own blood. She finally had family, but it was him. Jon did not know how to feel.

“Jon?” Daenerys’ sweet voice called from the top of the steps, afraid to enter. “Ghost led me here, are you okay?”

He was not okay. He wanted to lock himself in his room and not leave for a year. He wanted to raise Ned Stark from the grave behind him and demand the answer to every question that ran through his mind as a child. He wanted his mother’s statue to smile at him, instead of the cold gaze she gave him now. He could not bear to look upon his mother’s face any longer and stormed up the steps.

He rushed past Daenerys, unable to look her in the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought that there was a solid connection between Dany telling Sam about his dad and then immediately telling Jon, and they sort of just glossed over it. So here we are, a sort of alternate version.
> 
> Also, in this house, we stan angry!Jon Snow
> 
> Nearly finished planning, looking at ~60 chapters and I honestly can't wait to get smashing them out during this lockdown!
> 
> As always, not beta'd so feedback is appreciated x


	6. Cersei I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What the King dreams, the Hand builds"

It had been weeks since Jaime had left her. Abandoned her. Betrayed her. Cersei was furious still, her anger unabated since he stormed out of her rooms. _ How dare he leave her_, she thought, _ we have always been together. _

Cersei continued to drink. She vaguely remembered Pycelle speaking of it being bad for unborn babes, but she would not have it. _ My child is above such nonsense_.

And so, Cersei stared out the window near her desk, her nose upturned at the sight of King’s Landing. She had not left the Red Keep since the meeting with the Targaryen whore, and she had no reason to leave now. The Red Keep was safe, untouchable. She was safe as long as she remained within its hard walls, she believed. The false queen would perish in the cold North, along with her armies. That would be the moment for Cersei to secure her rule, her kingdoms, forever.

But Jaime was not there to help her. Instead, he had abandoned her and their heir. She should have known: he is not their father, he cares not for the Lannisters. Not as much as she did. No - she was Tywin’s heir, the Lion of Casterly Rock with teats. She would not be cast aside, she was the Queen. The only Queen who counted.

Cersei had no tears remaining. She had wept briefly when Jaime fled the capital, but since then she had done nothing but work.

She would win this war, for her, for the Lannisters, for her baby. No matter the cost.

Qyburn had remained at her side, aiding in her war. _ He always knows what is best for me, _ she thought. He stood by her side now, again writing the letters to the Lords that demanded their loyalty.

“Jaime will be at Winterfell soon, won’t he, Qyburn?” She asked. She knew the answer. She simply desired the conversation. The Mountain did not speak, she could not stand the blathering of Lord Greyjoy, and none other in the Keep were brave enough to talk to her. It was all a bit terribly lonely, but Cersei would never admit it.

“Yes, your Grace,” Qyburn nodded, “Forgive me, your Grace, but I made other preparations regarding Winterfell as well."

This piqued her interest. A part of her wished to slap the insolent man. Only she would make the plans, she had demanded when she was crowned, but she was willing to hear him out. His voice was quieter then, but a hint of glee could be found in his eyes. “Should the Targaryen pretender survive this so-called war with the dead, I beg that you do not worry, Your Grace. She will never return South.”

_ Good. _

Cersei smiled mischievously, her mind running through every way in which the evil woman would be slaughtered. 

“Once that is done, I want her head returned here. Silver hair would go perfectly with the castle walls.” Cersei smirked. Qyburn bowed in response and took his leave to further the preparations.

Cersei practically sauntered to her desk. She would win this war, she told herself again, whether Jaime was at her side or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a long one, but didn't want to just abandon Cersei until the plot demanded it - so here you go.
> 
> *whispers* we all know who really was the Mad Queen, just saying ;)
> 
> ALSO, we have planned this behemoth - 63 chapters, although subject to change should I adapt things. So excited! (Sorry if it's weird, but rewriting this is currently the only thing I have going for me while the UK is in lockdown lol)
> 
> As always, feedback appreciated x


	7. Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In the songs, the knights never screamed nor begged for mercy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the super short Cersei chapter, here's some good ol' Jaime Lannister.
> 
> (I currently have a lot of chapters just sat waiting to be edited, and I get through them rather quickly due to the boredom of lockdown, hence the frequent updates)

Jaime had never particularly liked Winterfell. It was very grey and uninteresting, its towers small compared to the grand Casterly Rock or the Red Keep. The last time he had been here was when he had been in the Kingsguard, acting as an entourage to the fat and useless Robert Baratheon.

As he rode toward the gates, he could feel how much the Keep had changed since then. It had seen blood and death and damage, as had the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Except, this particular kingdom had declared its independence not once, but twice. Jaime had been baffled by it. You simply needed to look around at the land surrounding the castle to see that the North was a wasteland, useless except as a source of starvation for the people who lived here. But Jaime had not travelled North to judge its resources. No, Jaime had sworn an oath to defend the realm. Cersei had broken it.

As he passed through the large gates of Winterfell, he was surprised to find that Targaryen forces were already at work training the smallfolk. He had only been a few days or so behind Daenerys’ army. So this was more urgent than he thought.

He dismounted his horse and tied it to a nearby fence. _ Someone else can have it_, he thought. He had stolen it from the Red Keep’s own stable, pretty sure the steed had in fact once been Joffrey’s, not that he had ever ridden it. He shook his head quickly, attempting to wipe the boy from his memory. His son, yes, but he had grown into an evil boy. A part of Jaime blamed himself for it.

As Jaime turned, prepared to approach Winterfell’s Great Hall, a man in a chair blocked his way, making him jump. _ I’m a knight, and I’ve been scared by a cripple in my way, _ he thought. When he looked closer, he recognised the man. He recognised the boy. Bran Stark, the child he had pushed from a tower years ago and crippled for life. For Cersei. Jaime was unable to maintain eye contact, as Bran stared back at him blankly.

“Hello, Jaime Lannister.” The boy said, unfeeling.

Jaime had been expecting him to be angry, to demand his head right then and there. He had put him in that chair at the end of the day, and would not blame him. Instead, Bran said nothing else. At the announcement of his name, however, the two guards standing by the gate looked at him venomously.

_ Ah, shit. _

The men stormed towards him then, grabbing both of his arms. Bran Stark continued to look at him emotionless - as if he were one of the cold statues the Starks liked to commemorate their dead. The shouting started then, a crowd gathering to drag him before the Starks. _ Well, it was a bit foolish to expect I could just walk in_, he thought as he was half-dragged, half-walked inside, _ If I’m lucky, Catelyn Stark might be here again to make sure I don’t get killed by a mob! _

Jaime was thrown to the floor, his knees hitting the stone floor hard. When he looked up, it was not a Stark standing before him, but Daenerys Targaryen.

Her eyes were furious. She had paid him little attention at the Dragon Pit, her ire focused on Cersei at the time. But now he was the worst Lannister in the room. Jaime noted that she wasn’t very tall, perhaps even smaller than Myrcella had been. He hadn’t really considered her height when stood by her dragon at the Battle of the Goldroad, _ a bit too busy trying to kill her_, he remembered. But on his knees she seemed like a giant, ready to crush him into the dirt.

“Jaime Lannister.” She said, sternly, coldly. 

“Yes, that would be my name! Some people forget though, call me Kingslayer instead.” Jaime couldn’t help the quip, the smirk that spread across his face. Perhaps banter was not the best way to approach a woman who commanded dragons.

Daenerys’ hand twitched as if to slap him. _ Do it, daughter of Aerys, hit me in front of the Northern Lords. _

Daughter of Aerys, daughter of the man who would have bathed King’s Landing in wildfire in his madness - but the daughter of Rhaella as well. She looked like her, he realised, as she glared at him. Rhaella had been a stern queen consort, but her face was soft and round like the woman who stood before him. If he squinted, perhaps it was Rhaella’s ghost who stood before him instead. Perhaps then, he would apologise for failing her.

Daenerys turned on her heel, walking towards the end table where the Bastard of Winterfell and his sister sat, twiddling their thumbs like Starks were prone to. It was then he noticed Tyrion, cowering in the corner. His brother walked towards him slowly, tentatively - terrified of the answer to the question he was no doubt about to ask.

“Brother… it’s good to see you,” Tyrion said, a slight smile on his face but his voice strained, “... I assume the Lannister army is not far behind?”

“About that…” Jaime looked down to the floor, ashamed.

Sansa Stark shot daggers at him as he glanced towards the table, Jon Snow closing his eyes, clearly exasperated. Daenerys, however, looked as if she were about to rip his head clean from his shoulders.

“Jaime…” Tyrion warned, his eyes begging for the punchline to the joke he had begun.

“Cersei is not sending her troops. She never intended to.” Not a joke, unfortunately. But it was not his fault. Jaime slowly raised himself off the floor as the crowd behind him gasped, murmuring of treason and oath-breaking.

Tyrion simply stared at him, then walked away, back to his dark corner.

“So why are you here, Kingslayer?” A man shouted from amongst the Lords.

“I’m here to fight. I swore an oath!” Jaime shouted. He had spent years disregarding promises and oaths in the name of his family. It was time to end that.

“Since when have oaths meant anything to you?” Daenerys spat back at him, her brows furrowed in anger, her face red to match the lining of her pretty dress. He had murdered her father some twenty-odd years ago, the father he had sworn to defend. He understood his daughter’s disbelief.

“At the Dragon Pit, you showed me a dead man. I swore to defend the realm from a horde of them. Don’t believe me if you want, your Grace, but I’m not stupid enough to think House Lannister can stop this rotting army on its own.” He declared. Cersei’s plan was idiotic. Whether they joined the North or not, the Lannisters would end up in their graves.

Daenerys said nothing. She turned to look at Jon, but he avoided her gaze. The sight made Jaime chuckle: Snow looked like a boy avoiding a childhood crush. 

“I would be willing to accept any help we can get.” The bastard finally spoke, looking to Jaime. Daenerys’ hands were still clenched, but she nodded and turned back to Jaime. She stood right in front of him once again, nowhere near eye level but nonetheless intimidating.

“Should your word prove false, Kingslayer, should you betray me and the people in this hall - I will not hesitate to execute you.” Her words were strong and even, no sign of the madness that had plagued Aerys.

Jaime nodded in response. He would keep his oath this time. He heard Tyrion let go of a breath, no doubt nervous that he would be, in fact, be executed. _ Oh brother, the second I leave this room it'll be you getting bollocked by the people at that table. _

As if right on cue, the screeching voice of Sansa Stark cut through the room.

“This man is a murderer! He is not to be trusted within these halls!” She yelled, rising from her seat. Daenerys turned her head back towards the table, her lips pressed into a thin line. _ Don’t worry, Dragon Queen, she’s always been this whiny... though she’s got a point. _

“Lady Sansa, sit down,” Daenerys replied coolly. The woman had already been pushed to the point of fury already today, he doubted she would be able to maintain her calm should Sansa continue.

“I will not! You allow this man into my home! A destroyer of my House! I will not let you!” Sansa’s face was scrunched in disgust as her yelling grew louder.

Daenerys’ raised her brows and walked to stand in front of the Stark.

“This man has destroyed my House as well, Lady Stark, but it matters not. The Dead are more important in the meantime. And, alas, I do not need the permission of the Warden’s sister. Sit down.” Jaime could only see the back of her braided head but could imagine the fierce look on her face. When Sansa did not back down, another voice joined the fray.

“Lady Sansa, I vouch for him!”

_ Brienne. _

He turned to find her standing in a sea of grey cloaks, her blonde hair slightly longer than it had been before but still close to her head. He smiled. She smiled back.

“This man, no matter his sins, has saved my life multiple times. He gave me the arms and armour I needed to aid you in your escape from House Bolton, Lady Stark. I trust him. I vouch for him.” Brienne’s eyes were hard, still locked on him.

Sansa looked lost, unable to respond. Nevertheless, her eyes quickly returned to their icy stare, but as she began to open her mouth for another attack, Bran spoke.

“The Night King has your dragon, Daenerys Stormborn.”

The hall was silent, all turning to the young Stark, processing the information.

_ Well, this is turning into an adventure. A kind of sad one, judging by the shock on Daenerys’ face_. Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen looked the most upset, their faces crestfallen, almost as if they were about to weep.

“Excuse me, my Lords,” Daenerys said quickly, fleeing the room.

She was followed by an older man and a young woman. Jon Snow looked as if he were about to follow as well, but didn't. Sansa returned to her seat, her face void of any clear emotion, and watched the lords as they left.

Jaime stood there for a bit longer, unsure of what to do with himself. He heard the slow thuds of armoured boots behind him and then the hand of Brienne giving him back his sword. He hadn’t even noticed they had taken it. They looked at each other for a moment, no words passing between them. 

“Ser Jaime,” She said swiftly, blushing, before rushing from the room. He did not want her to leave.

Jaime stood alone in the Great Hall, ready to fulfil his oath.


	8. Daenerys III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One voice may speak you false, but it many there is always a truth to be found”

Her poor son, dead. But not dead, no. Reanimated from his watery grave by the Night King to be used against her.

When Bran had spoken such horror aloud in the hall, Daenerys thought she would collapse. Instead, she had fled the lords like a child, weeping. No doubt Sansa had smiled at her distress, not that she had bothered to look. The woman was becoming more insufferable by the day - challenging her in front of the Lords. She did not wish for Jaime Lannister to sleep under the same roof as her either, but she understood that this war was more important than House squabbling. It was all so draining.

To make matters worse, Jon had avoided her gaze yet again, just as he had done for the past two days. She was beginning to become irate. To be ignored by a man she loved so dearly caused her misery she had never experienced before. Again, Dany felt like a child, pining for a man.

Daenerys was still storming through Winterfell’s narrow corridors towards her room when Tyrion caught up with her. Her Hand, apparently so clever and cunning, fooled by Cersei Lannister. I suppose she was fooled as well, though she dared not admit it.

“I do not wish to speak with you, Tyrion.” She snapped, not looking at him.

“Your Grace, I-” He began.

“I trusted you to ensure she would honour the deal, Tyrion. You were a fool!” She continued, the sound of her boots hitting the floor filling the silence between her attacks. “YOU came up with the idea of the truce and what do I have to show for it? A one-handed, traitorous commander with no army to command!”

“Your Grace, I am sorry.” Daenerys whipped her head around to find Tyrion’s jaw clenched and his eyes hard. There was a spark of defiance in his eyes but mostly fright. He was too trusting of his family and she had only trusted Cersei’s word because of him. Because she had faith in him. She was wrong to do so, it seemed.

Daenerys slammed open the door to her chambers, Missandei, Jorah and Tyrion following behind her. _ I have just discovered that I will have to fight my own son, and yet they continue to pester me! _ She wanted to be alone.

“Tyrion, how many times have you failed me thus far?! When I named you my hand in Meereen it was because I believed you were my best choice... Perhaps I should have picked another.” Her voice was bitter. She glanced briefly at Jorah, and Tyrion noticed, hurt. Tyrion had spent years serving the realm as a clever advisor to the Baratheon kings, she had heard - perhaps she had heard wrong. She should have named Jorah her hand, she knew that now, but she could not risk Tyrion’s defection if she were to insult him by un-naming him.

Tyrion stood silent, his face blank. She had offended him, but what of it? He had made the mistake of trusting his sister’s word at that meeting of theirs, and it had cost the battle against the dead an army. Now, Cersei would have troops untouched by the war, while they suffered. _ Or perished_, a traitorous thought told her. She did not want to think about that.

“You’re all excused. I wish to be alone.” She commanded. Her advisors filed out, obedient.

She didn’t really want to be alone. Not with the army of the dead approaching. With Viserion at their side, her sweet son. Instead, she wanted to sit with Jon and talk through her anger and pain with him, just like they had done on Dragonstone’s beach. 

She had had enough. Jon would be brooding somewhere about something and she would find him and get it out of him. She would not die for the North in the battle to come without knowing why Jon Snow was avoiding her. 

She left her room again, passing the Unsullied who had been stationed in this corridor, far away from the other rooms the Starks slept in themselves. _ Don’t worry, Lady Stark, I would not order my Unsullied to murder you in your sleep. _

When she reached the courtyard, she was brought to a halt. She had not had the proper time to explore Winterfell, having arrived less than a week ago, and as such had no idea where Jon would be. She stood alone, looking lost, as she observed the yard and its inhabitants. To her side were the crypts, where Jon had begun his isolation not two days ago. She dared not enter the cold crypts for fear of what she would find inside. There were stables to the other side, but it was unlikely that Jon would be in there. 

Instead, she looked past the crypts, to find there was a large gate to another section of the castle. She walked towards it by instinct and pushed it open. It was a garden, no, a forest. Trees taller than her dragons and greener than emeralds. The sprinkle of snow on the branches reflecting the sun and brightening the whole area. Daenerys was in awe, mesmerised by its beauty. There had been no proper garden on Dragonstone, no greenery to brighten the coldness of the black keep. Yes, this is where Jon was, this is the beauty of the North he spoke of.

And she was right. Jon stood near the centre, a huge mass of dark cloak and fur easily spotted amongst the pale snow. He was underneath a large and crooked tree covered in red leaves, not green. He did not see her approach, but no doubt heard her steps as she crushed the fresh snow beneath her feet.

“Jon?” She said quietly, hesitantly. For all her determination and bravado trying to find him, she was unsure exactly of what she wanted to say.

“I’m sorry, Dany.” He replied. She had not expected an apology so quickly. If she was honest, she had anticipated an argument.

“You’ve been ignoring me, Jon, and I don’t understand why. Please tell me.” When Dany had entered the garden, the Godswood, as she remembered Jon referring to it once, she had wanted to be strong and demanding. She had not wanted to beg.

Jon slowly turned, his face sad and his eyes glued to the snow at his feet. She walked to stand closer to him, to provide comfort should he need it. _ You’ve gone soft_, she told herself. She found that she did not care. Jon was Jon.

“I...have something to tell you,” His voice was strained, his eyes tired, as if he had been crying. “My name is not really Jon Snow. Never was.”

She was confused. How did that make sense? Was he from a different kingdom? Jon Sand? Jon Rivers? Jon Stone? From her readings on the Seven Kingdoms, bastards took the name of where they raised, irrespective of birthplace or heritage.

“I spoke with Bran… and he confirmed some things for me, and I-I haven’t been dealing with it well.” He continued. He did like to be dramatic, but from his nervousness, Dany could tell this was serious. “My parents, my _ real _parents, are Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark - Lord Stark had kept it a secret from everyone - my name is actually Aegon Targaryen”

There was silence. Daenerys looked at him, her mouth agape. Her mind seemed unable to string a sentence together.

“Please say something.” He begged, whispering.

She wanted to, desperately. This lovely man before her was no bastard. He was her family. Her blood. She wasn’t the only one left! For a second, Dany forgot about the Iron Throne, about the war. She had been alone in this world since Viserys gained his crown of molten gold, and now she wasn’t. She did not believe in the Gods, but this had to be their work. Daenerys was glad.

She smiled and hugged him, hard.

“Jon, this is the best thing I have heard since I arrived in Westeros,” she whispered in his ear. It was not a lie. All she had known since her arrival was defeat and death and doom, and this was… good? She thinks. This was hope. She would never have children but House Targaryen would not end with her. The thought made her eyes well with happy tears.

“I’m the heir though, Dany.” He said as he pulled back from the hug. He was afraid, she realised. Afraid she would despise him, resent him. She hated that he had thought that.

He was the heir though. She wasn’t anymore. It would be wrong to say that did not make her sad, a little bit angry. Since her brother’s death, everything she had done was for her house’s restoration, working towards the day she would sit upon the Iron Throne. For him to take all that hard work from her now would crush her, without a doubt. He could snatch it from her and place the crown upon his own head, and the Seven Kingdoms would follow. She simply had to pray he did not desire the crown. So Dany said nothing, but Jon had noticed the sad look in her eyes.

“I don’t want it, Dany, please hear me when I say that,” he pleaded, “The first thing Sam did was tell me to take the Throne! I’ve never hated a thought so much in my life. I don’t want that for you. I don’t want that for me.”

She let go of the breath she did not realise she was holding. Jon was a good man who had never wanted the leadership bestowed upon him, she had known from the start. He was good at it, yes, but he did not want it. She hugged him again, more desperately this time.

“Are you alright? About it all?” She asked.

He laughed. “You’re the first person to actually ask me that.”

Of course, she was. He was a private man - if he had not told her he doubted he had told anybody. She realised then that Sam must have told him immediately after their encounter in the library. His friend, apparently. A friend who cared not for his feelings but for his own grief. She understood his pettiness, but it angered her all the same.

“I’m... It’s hard. I’ve spent my whole life trying to follow my father’s words. To be honourable, and kind, and noble, because that is what my father was. People take me for my word because I am Ned’s son. People follow me because I am Ned Stark’s son… but I'm not, Dany. Not anymore.” His eyes seemed desperate, lost. She had not known life as a bastard, but she could tell twenty-three years of struggle and pain were pouring out of his lips at that moment.

“You’re Jon - Snow, Stark, Targaryen, it doesn’t matter. People follow you because you are good to them. You care and fight for them. Ned’s Stark son or no, you are a good man. You became an honourable man because you thought he was your father, but that doesn’t change because suddenly he isn’t.” Daenerys said.

Jon continued to brood. His brow pinching together. She would convince this man of his worth even if she had to stand in this bitter cold until nightfall.

“Children are not their fathers. I, for one, certainly hope that is true. Be your own man, set your own path. The men of this land will follow you no matter the blood that runs through your veins, that I know for certain.” 

“But what if they don’t?” 

“They will.” Her voice was firm, strong. If he commanded they fight against the Army of the Dead, they would follow. If Jon lay claim to the Iron Throne the men of the North would follow, she knew that. They would not care for his dragon blood. He had to understand that. The men and women in Essos had followed her, _ because of her_, not because her name was Targaryen. He had proven himself to the Northerners already, she just needed to do as well.

“I don’t want to have to choose, my life has been torn enough as it is.” He sighed. His eyes looked towards the towering tree behind them, looking for a sign from the Old Gods, no doubt.

“Then don’t choose, Jon. You told Theon he could be both, why can’t you?” He quickly looked back at her, curious as to how she was aware of the conversation. Varys was her spymaster, after all, and he did do it in the middle of her throne room. She took a deep breath. “Whatever you decide to do, I will love you all the same… is that alright?”

It is the first time she has said it aloud and it terrified her. The question hung in the air for a second. _ Please say yes_, she thought, _ fate has brought you to me and I beg it does not take you from me now. _

He didn’t say anything, but walked a step closer to her, gently bringing his hands to caress her face. He kissed her, sweetly and softly, as if she were glass. She felt the smile spread across his face as she kissed him back.

_I will take that as a yes, Jon Snow, and I will hold you to it for the rest of your days_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D&D: all Daenerys cares about is the Iron Throne and therefore is pissed Jon is a Targ boy  
The fans, intellectuals: Daenerys cares about carrying on her family's legacy and righting their wrongs, and the way she sees this being done is by recapturing the Seven Kingdoms. Daenerys has been alone in the world for years, knowing House Targaryen would end with her, but now knows it won't. Just because Dany doesn't HAVE family (that's alive) doesn't mean it's not important to her. Jon's parentage is a scary thing, but a good thing.
> 
> Thanks for coming to my TED talk lol
> 
> As always, feedback appreciated x  
(Update may take a while as we've got a big fat Theon chapter coming up and I'm having a struggle)


	9. Theon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Every flight begins with a fall"

The waters surrounding Lordsport were horrid. Choppy and wild, Theon worried whether his small fishing boat would sink before he even reached the shore, their bodies lost in the darkness of the sea.

He had not really planned this effort. He and Daris had spent the rest of the evening after receiving the information thinking of the best solution and came up with nothing. But, the longer they waited, the higher the chance he would find his sister dead. Theon could barely stomach the thought.

So, Theon had decided that haste was necessary. Daris had volunteered to accompany him, the rest of the crew gawking at the plan. It didn’t need that many men anyway. Just the two of them, they would bribe their way into the city during the night, and work it out from there. It was a plan based entirely on chance. But one chance was all he needed. Then, he would rescue Yara and return to Winterfell to fight for Queen Daenerys and the Starks, he was sure of it. Daris was uneasy about the plan, he could tell, but the man stayed silent. 

When Theon and Daris landed on the shore, a mile or so from the city, they hid their small fisherman’s boat between the grey rocks. They donned their dark cloaks and pulled up their hoods, hoping to pass for fishermen or sailors, and began their walk to Lordsport.

Neither of them spoke for a while, too nervous to utter a sound. Theon had not been back to the Iron Islands since the Kingsmoot, when he defected with his sister. Euron would have surely killed them, and as much as Theon hated his own existence, he would not let him threaten Yara’s. Of course, he hadn’t exactly been the best at doing that in practice. He saw himself jumping from that burning ship and abandoning his sister every night, every nightmare ending the same. He would always see that moment, the look on her face, and then he would jump. It made him sick.

The sight of Lordsport’s mangled stone walls made him stop, and Theon realised he was afraid. What if this failed? What if his stupid plan got Yara killed? He would never forgive himself. Daris stopped behind him too, and sensing Theon’s doubt, placed a rough hand on his shoulder. 

“Mate, we just do our best, yeah?” He smiled. Theon wanted to punch his smile off his face. What if our best isn’t good enough?

Theon shrugged his hand off, unwilling to start a conversation this close to the walls. If he got captured by Euron because Daris called him Theon too close to a guard, the Drowned God would laugh at him for eternity.

A few steps and the moment of truth came.

“State your business, lads!” The guard shouted over the sound of the choppy waves. He was dressed entirely in grey, barely noticeable against the steel-coloured walls.

“Fisherman’s boat got wrecked, mate, need a roof for the night! A girl as well!” Daris was a good liar, it seemed.

It appeared to satisfy the guard, who, by the looks of the near seven bottles next to his shield, was in no state to be making important judgements at the gates. Theon wasn’t going to wait around to let him come to his senses. They hurried inside, the wooden doors creaking with the effort. Instead of being met by the most well-guarded port that wasn’t Pyke, they were met with a ghost town. The sight made Daris frown.

“This is too easy, Theo-... Captain,” Daris stumbled. “You still think this is the best idea?”

“No,” Theon replied, bluntly. They were in, too late now.

They weaved between the city’s narrow alleys and streets until they reached its only inn. Most of the sailors preferred to stay in the brothels, so inns weren’t exactly popular business in such a gloomy place. 

Theon quietly opened the door, hoping to go unnoticed by the men collapsed at the bar. Like the rest of the port, the inn was quiet. There were a few men separated by oak tables, and two at the bar, of which one was sleeping like the dead.

Daris approached the bar and asked for two of whatever was the barkeep’s strongest drink. The older man, balding and face beginning to sag with age, looked them up and down for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing. Theon looked away, pretending to admire the inn’s rather shitty ceiling. Daris continued to look the barkeep right in the eye. 

Eventually, the man looked away and moved to fix their drinks. 

The room was warm, the heat of the fire making up for the absence of customers. Next to them, a man slobbered over a tankard of ale, slurring as he asked for another. When Theon dared to glance at him, the man stared back. The awkward exchange was ended by the clanging of Theon and Daris’ drinks on the bar.

The two men walked over to their own table, their plan to gain information from the inn not exactly panning out yet.

“So… what’s next?” Daris asked.

“We get information from one of the men in here, someone’s got to know where Yara is,” Theon replied, determined. He would find Yara, she was in the city somewhere.

Daris sighed, looking around. “That’s not a plan, is it?” The man was clearly frustrated, tapping his fingers on the table between them. Theon took another gulp of his drink. 

“Yara found me by sheer fucking luck, why can’t I?” He whispered, but it was harsh, and not as quiet as he wanted it to be.

“_ Tried_, mate. She didn’t succeed,” Daris stared right at him then, his eyes full of judgement. “I get it, you wanna find her. I wanna find her too, but I’m some nobody from the other side of the Islands - if we get caught I’m not hostage material.”

Theon began to understand then. He was right. Should they get caught, should Euron take them as prisoners, Theon was the only one of the two worth a ransom. Daris had never been properly acknowledged by his noble father, and the man would be unlikely to offer his coin if it risked the wrath of his uncle.

_ Perhaps we should turn back, _ he thought, _ all I’m doing is leading more men to their deaths - just like at Winterfell. _But he could not go back to the ship empty-handed, a coward. He would surely be thrown from his own ship, all the while the Drowned God laughed at him.

As Theon sat there torn, the drunkard from the bar began to make his way over to them. He plonked himself in the crooked seat beside Daris, another round of drinks in his hands.

“You lads look like you need some cheering up! Drink!” He cheered.

Theon accepted the drink readily, gulping it down almost in one. Daris eyed the man, wary, but grabbed the cup that was offered.

“Good lad! We like a man who can stomach his drink here in good ol’ Lordsport!” The stranger chuckled, and then reached out to shake Daris’ hand. “Name’s Alton, m’lords.”

Daris accepted the handshake, albeit reluctantly. Theon thought he recognised the man, but could not quite remember. After all, it had been years since he’d been on the Iron Islands properly, even longer since he had been in Lordsport.

“I couldn’t help but hear bits of your conversation, lads… Hail to Queen Yara.” Alton whispered, a slight smile on his face.

Theon was relieved, and smiled back, eager to continue his plan. All he had needed was one chance and here he was. Theon’s prayers had been answered after all.

Daris looked to Theon, surprised. He did not say a word until Theon gave a small nod of approval. 

“Agreed, mate. What brings you to Lordsport?” Daris asked.

“Having to work in the logging camps just outside the city, Euron’s wanting ships, it seems,” Alton said as he continued to down his alcohol. “Not as important as saving this blasted place’s rightful Queen though!”

Theon truly could not believe his luck. “Do you know where she is? Seeing as you live in the city?” He could barely contain his desperation. He was going to get Yara back, today. At last, he could make up for leaving her in the first place.

“Why, of course. She’s been thrown into the rooms of the Captain of the Guard’s manse. Guessing Euron thought it was inconspicuous enough you wouldn’t find it.” Alton replied.

Theon stood immediately. “Take us to her.” To which the man simply nodded and led the way.

The night was beginning to become greyer, the sun no doubt rising on the horizon in a few hours. Still, the breeze from the coast was bitter, so Theon held his cloak a little tighter than before. Their newfound friend led them south, closer to the city’s harbour. They finally stopped when they reached a modest stone home, nestled in between brothels on the city’s seafront. 

“She’s in here.” Alton declared with a smirk. Behind Theon, Daris shifted on his feet.

Theon was ready. Now was his moment. When he made a step forward, Daris pulled him back.

“Theon, are you sure? This doesn’t seem…” Daris began. Theon had been branded a coward for years, today he would change that. Theon stepped inside despite his friend’s protests, and Daris, the loyal man, followed.

The house was quiet, dark except for a few candles on a desk in the corner. When Theon stopped walking, he could hear the faint sound of a woman in pain. By instinct, Theon smashed open the door that he believed led to its basement, his dagger drawn. Yara was kneeling in an iron cage, wearing the same clothes he had last seen her in except that they were dirty and stained red. Theon thought she looked horrible.

“Yara!” He shouted, panicked. He would get her out of here, no matter what.

She looked up then and immediately scrunched her face in anger.

“What the FUCK are you doing here!?” Yara shouted.

He recoiled at her yelling but ran forward anyway to try and free her.

“Theon, listen to me! Turn around and leave!” She pleaded. Her eyes were wild, bloodshot and black, a far cry from the stoic sailor he had known.

Daris stood beside him then. “Theon, did you not see him outside? This is clearly a-”

“Trap?” A voice in the corner laughed.

More laughing came, but not from one voice, but many. Four men appeared from the shadows of the room, wielding serrated blades and axes.

Daris drew his blade, throwing an angry look at Theon. The four men stalked forward, ready to attack.

“Remember boys… Euron just wants Lord Cockless here, don’t need the other one.” The assailant's voice was loud and deep, commanding the rest of the men.

Theon did not even have time to look back to Yara before the first axe swing came.

It missed him, only by an inch, becoming stuck in Yara’s cage bars. Theon slashed the caught man’s gut before dodging the attack of the second. In an instant, Daris had the second man’s head in the crook of his arm, stumbling backwards into the stone wall behind them. 

The leader came for him then, standing almost a foot taller than Theon. He raised a huge waraxe above his head as he lunged, bringing it down hard. Theon managed to move at the last second but had his dagger knocked from his hand. When he turned to find it, he saw Yara choking out the third through the bars, the man kicking helplessly as Yara used her weight against the iron cage as leverage. Daris had finished off the man from before, though not cleanly, bashing his head repeatedly against the wall.

When he could not find his lost blade, Theon panicked. The axeman returned for another swing, causing Theon to fall over. He rolled, the axe instead hitting the wood floor and splintering it. Daris had hold of him then, dragging him by the cloak through the door as the axeman advanced.

“No, Daris! Yara! She’s in there!” Theon screamed. _ No_, he thought, _ I can’t leave her! _

“Another time!” Daris yelled. The axeman had burst through the door frame, readying his axe for another deadly attack. The man’s face was furious now, veins springing from his forehead. Theon scrambled to his feet, pulled along by Daris. Outside, Alton looked at them confused, and then, brandished his own weapon.

_ A trap_.

Alton had no time to lunge, as Daris ran at him, lodging his own knife into his throat. He looked back to Theon, covered in blood.

They ran. An onslaught of arrows grazed at their ankles, not stopping as they ran for the city gates. Soldiers appeared from darkened houses, swords ready. Theon and Daris had no choice but to continue their flight. Luckily, the gates were open, and the drunken guard was passed out on a chair to the side, oblivious to the fight coming his way. 

It did not quiet until they reached the beach they had left their boat, and when they were sure the Lordsport guard had ended their chase, Theon fell to the ground, out of breath. Daris continued on, angrily pushing it into the water as Theon watched. When Daris was done, Theon finally stood and stumbled over to their escape. Daris punched him. Hard.

“You fucking numpty!” Daris bellowed. “You almost got us fucking killed!”

“I was trying to save my sister!” Theon yelled. “We almost had her!”

Daris punched him again. “No, we didn’t! It was a trap from the start! We should have known! They knew we would come!”

Theon paused. No, he had wanted to save his sister. _ Perhaps that had blinded you, coward_, a treacherous voice in his head said.

“Get in the fucking boat, Theon. I’ll speak to you when you’ve got some common sense.” He snapped.

Theon obeyed, ashamed, stumbling into the fishing boat in his fatigue. Daris did not look at him again and directed them both back to the ship lingering a few miles from the shore. The waves were calmer this time, no longer drenching his clothes. Theon would have preferred the sound of the crashing waves over his friend’s silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mwahaha, Theon rescues Yara in his second chapter? I think not! Not gonna lie, Theon will not be one of the major POVs in this story, but he's still important so I'm not leaving him to the wayside.
> 
> First proper attempt doing some action, let me know how it went :)
> 
> As always, feedback appreciated.


	10. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are ghosts in Winterfell, and I am one of them."

Arya didn’t like sleeping in the castle. Ever since she had arrived home it had felt wrong. When she would ready herself for bed each night, the halls were too silent. There was no Rickon clambering into her covers for a story, no Robb laughing with Jon as they stayed up later than her, no Sansa giggling with her mother as they brushed each other’s hair.

_ I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I am going home_, she had told Jaquen H'ghar. But home felt strange. It was all gone, and Arya missed it.

She had tried not to, initially, but with Sansa’s taking over their parents’ room, and Jon arriving with a Queen, Arya felt out of place - like everything had shifted. She had offered Daenerys her own room, via Jon, of course, so she did not have to sleep in it herself. Too many ghosts in Winterfell. Instead, Arya had set up her own space in the stable’s side room, left unoccupied as the stablemaster lived in Wintertown with his family. It was comfy enough, far better than her sleeping conditions since her escape from King’s Landing, at least. She preferred it.

Often, Arya would peer out the room’s small window, and observe those within the yard. Servants bickering, soldiers training, smallfolk working. It never really changed. Of course, it also meant that she had seen Jaime Lannister walk through her family’s gates. She remembered being furious. He was not on her list but, by the Seven, he should have been. Sansa had told her of the many things he had done when she returned - battling Robb, escaping from mother. Should he dare draw a sword against her family, she would kill him, she had decided. However, this time, she saw a different man. He looked just as ugly as he had always been, but not as dead as she had left him. She quickly and quietly exited her room, tailing behind the giant man as he worked his way to the forge.

Suddenly, he turned around.

“Girl, you’re not as good as you think you are.” The Hound murmured.

Her back straightened then, a slight smirk spreading across her face. _ Perhaps I had wanted to be caught, dead man. _

The Hound rolled his eyes and continued his journey, Arya speeding up to walk beside him. She looked him over once again, this time more closely. His face was still burned, naturally, but he had a series of scars trailing the other side which she had not remembered seeing. _ No doubt from his fight with Brienne_, she pondered.

He glared at her from the corner of his eyes, analysing her as well. One side of his mouth raised into a slight smile, so quick that Arya nearly didn’t catch it.

“What are you here for then, Hound?” She asked abruptly. She wanted to know. He didn’t strike her as a loyal northerner, coming from the Westerlands, but neither did his fear of fire put him in the category of Targaryen supporters.

“That’s your business how?” He replied, his face grimacing.

She stopped dead in her tracks then. “You’re still rude.”

“And you’re still fucking annoying,” He insulted, though his chuckle afterwards indicated otherwise. When he said nothing, neither did she. “I’m fighting the dead, I suppose.”

The mighty Hound of House Clegane, mutt for King’s Landing, was fighting for the living? She had to say she was surprised. Few men were here because they wanted to be. She frowned, unsure of how to reply.

“What are you doing here, then?” He asked. 

She raised her eyebrows, incredulously. What on earth was he on about? “I live here, it’s my home.”

“Is it?” The Hound rebuked. The question startled her. Of course, it was home, even if she was sleeping in a shed. She was still safe inside the walls of Winterfell, she was still surrounded by Bran, Sansa and Jon. It was still her home… maybe?

Unwilling to answer such a stupid question, Arya storms off towards the forge without him. Should he want a serious answer, a heartfelt conversation, then he can seek her out again. He wouldn’t though, she knew him well enough to know that. _Does this mean he’s back on the list? _ She asks herself. She would simply have to see how it acted. The Hound was a dangerous man, uncaring of others as he had so keenly demonstrated. His selfless act of defending the realm didn’t make sense to her.

She leaned against one of the wooden posts dotted around the forge area, twiddling her thumbs as she worked through her thoughts. She wasn’t a talking person, years alone had confirmed that.

“Can I help you, m’lady?” A voice behind her asked. She sprang from the post and turned to find Gendry.

It seemed Winterfell was full of ghosts today.

He looked startled, and blinked a few times, almost unsure if she was real. His head was shaven and he looked as if he were attempting to grow out a beard, though not very successfully. He looked older, stronger. That is until he began speaking like the young boy she remembered.

“A-Arya, by the Seven I-... You’re alive!” He beamed, and Arya realised she had missed his smile.

“I didn’t realise you were alive either. After the Red Woman, I just assumed…” She did not look him in the eye, attempting to avoid the emotion that welling up inside her. Joy, she thought it was.

“Likewise, Arya. I’m so glad to see you’re alright. You look… nice,” He blushed, raising his hand to grasp at the back of his own neck in nervousness. If this was flirting, Arya realised Gendry was terrible at it.

She smiled, bigger than the smile she had given to the Hound. “You too,” She said. Arya wasn’t one for poetry, just like her brother. _ Leave the love letters to Sansa, she knows how to write them_.

They awkwardly stared at each other for a while longer, both unsure of how to continue their reunion.

“So… what have you been up to?” Gendry eventually asked. Arya was unsure how to answer. _ Oh, not much, just a killing spree, a couple of near-death experiences and learning how to change her face using dead people… the usual, _ she joked to herself. No, she couldn’t tell him that, not unless she wanted him to go running for the hills.

“Uh… things,” She answered. _ Arya, that’s not an answer! _Her mind screamed. 

“Things?” His eyes were waiting for the punchline, his eyebrows raised so far up his head they could have passed for his actual hair.

“Well… I’ve been to Braavos. Killed the Freys. Things.” For the first time in her life, Arya was not confident. She hadn’t seen this man in years and he was turning her into mushy snow. She didn’t like it.

“You did _what_?” Gendry was shocked. When he had seen her last, she was young. She wasn’t a killer, though she had killed. She realised Gendry didn’t know her _now_.

“They were on my list.” She replied, matter of factly. It was the truth. The Freys had butchered her mother and brother and they paid for it. Fuck the Freys.

“Wait… the list was serious?” He had heard it say it plenty of times, Hot Pie had often laughed when she did. It was not a joke. It was never a joke. 

Arya said nothing, staring at him. He stopped looking at her then, slightly afraid. A part of her felt bad for making him uncomfortable, but this is who she was now. She had home, yes, but so did the rest of the Starks. The List was the only thing she had that was hers. No one could take it from her.

Gendry continued to work on his anvil, and Arya acknowledged the end of the conversation. He clearly had been freaked out by her demeanour, and she couldn’t blame him. He was too sweet for this world. Too naive. 

“See you around.” She said, almost sadly. She turned on her feet and fled, not waiting around for his response. 

Where to hide, she wondered. She did not wish to speak to anyone else today. The stables were an option, but she felt as if she needed fresh air. Not the stench of horses. Therefore, she made her way through the bustling courtyard to the Godswood. At least none but a Stark would disturb her there.

Funnily enough, it was her doing the disturbing. Jon stood by the Weirwood, holding the Dragon Queen’s hands. She almost didn’t spot her dressed in her white furs. Jon spotted her from across the clearing and gestured for her to join them. Daenerys smiled at her. A friendly one, not the bitter one she had given Sansa upon her arrival in Winterfell. Arya was still wary of the woman. Afraid of what she might do. The two had been deep in conversation, it seemed, and Jon looked as if he had been previously crying. When Arya noticed this, her eyes snapped to the Queen angrily, instantly blaming her.

“Arya, we’ve just been talking about you, I’m glad you’re here,” Jon spoke softly. He too, gave her a smile, one that crinkled at his eyes in genuineness. He let go of Daenerys’ hands then, moving to give his sister a hug. Arya accepted it, readily, but could not resist the temptation to glimpse at Daenerys. The woman stood nearer to the tree, her hands clasped at her stomach, her eyes looking away from the private moment Arya and Jon were sharing.

“It’s good to see you too, you’ve been so busy!” Arya could not contain her childlike excitement. She had wanted to speak to Jon again after their brief reunion, but she had not been able to pin him down since that day.

“I’m sorry, Arya. I really am. We can talk now though,” Jon replied. He glanced at Daenerys and smiled, prompting the silver-haired woman to say her goodbyes and depart. Arya watched as Daenerys walked away from them, her silver-gold hair rustling in the slowly increasing wind. Arya thought her braids were very pretty. “There’s something I need to tell you, actually.”

She returned her gaze to Jon then, unsure of what he possibly could have to tell her. She was already aware of Jon’s death at the wall, Bran had told her very soon after her arrival in Winterfell, and she already suspected her brother’s involvement with the Dragon Queen. She couldn’t blame him, she was very pretty.

Jon gave her a crooked smile, his eyes avoiding hers briefly before steeling himself to speak. “My real father is Rhaegar Targaryen, my mother Aunt Lyanna.” He said quickly.

_ My brother… is my cousin_, she thought. In a split second, she realised every implication of this news, and when the second passed, Arya realised she did not care.

“Okay,” She said, simply and bluntly.

“Okay?” Jon seemed hesitant, his eyes flitting between hers as if seeking a hidden reaction.

“You’re my brother.” Arya did not care for his blood, and even if she did, he was still half-Stark, just as he had been before.

“But I-”

“You’re my brother,” Arya said again, stronger this time, firmer. She did not break eye contact. 

He paused, unsure of how to proceed.

“I… I had a whole speech prepared and everything,” He chuckled, a smile spreading across his face once again. Arya could not help but notice the tear that rolled down his eye, however.

She laughed. “Save the speech for someone else. I’m sure Davos would love it.”

“Actually, I’d like to keep it quiet. I don’t want the throne, and the more people that know the more dangerous it’ll be. For all of us.” He glanced over to the wooden entrance that Daenerys had just left through. “I told you because I trust you.”

Her heart warmed at that. She was glad he did, Sansa certainly hadn’t when she first came home. She made a crossing motion with her hand over her heart, swearing not to tell a soul.

Jon smirked at that. It was childish, yes, but she meant it. “Of course, there are people outside this garden I certainly don’t want to know… the Spider… Tyrion Lannister perhaps, certainly not the Northern Lords. Don’t tell any of them, but more importantly-”

“Don’t tell Sansa!” They said in unison.

It had been years since they had said such a jest, and for a second Arya felt like a young girl again. She loved her sister, but Sansa was playing her own game at this point. Only the Gods know what Sansa would do with such information. Hopefully, she would never know. Jon hugged her then, tightly, just as he had done in the courtyard days prior. No longer a brother by blood, but certainly a brother by bond. Nothing could change that, so she squeezed back just as hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love me some book references lmao
> 
> Battle of Winterfell is fast approaching, and I was wondering what format you guys would prefer it in:
> 
> 1\. One continuous chapter with multiple POVs but divided up with lines  
OR  
2\. The separate chapter POVs as I've currently been doing (though I would release at the same time, so wouldn't result in getting them any slower)
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed x


	11. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In this light, she could almost be a beauty," he thought. "In this light, she could almost be a knight."

Jaime had spent the last day aimlessly wandering around the Keep. He had tried to offer his help to the men training the smallfolk, but each unit’s leader had looked at him with scorn. He was used to it by now, he supposed, being the Kingslayer and all. So, Jaime kept himself busy by practising his swordsmanship in the courtyard. Never before had the Lannister felt so _useless. _

All of the Starks had avoided him, as well as the Dragon Queen. He understood, it was not like they were to be best friends. Or friendly at all. He didn’t exactly trust them to have his back in the fight to come, and a part of him was okay with that.

Well, he did trust one.

She was often outside the walls, training with the boy she had taken for a squire. In the snow, she looked majestic, all muscle and sword dashing across their pretend battlefield. The sight of the poor boy struggling to keep up with her onslaught would make him chuckle.

He hadn’t really thought about what he was going to say to her, as he was mindlessly drawn to where she was fighting at that moment. They had not spoken a word to each other since she vouched for him to Sansa Stark, and he had been unable to find where she had taken up residence - though not for lack of trying. He had been stopped by some Northern guards, demanding he sleeps outside the walls with the ‘rest of the foreigners’. _ Fair enough. _

She still hadn’t noticed him when he finally reached her, her back turned to him. The squire, however, did, his eyes going wide before being thoroughly pummeled in the chest by Brienne’s wooden sword.

“Podrick! The dead will not pause because you get distracted! Again!” She commanded, unaware that Jaime stood not three feet behind her. She was a mighty woman, but Gods she could be crept up on so easily. When Podrick did nothing, she sighed, exasperated.

“Brienne.” Jaime finally managed to get out. Her back immediately straightened and Jaime liked to think that her face had gone red. One could dream. She slowly turned, attempting to maintain her cool, though failing miserably.

“Jaime.” She said with all the bravado she could muster.

When Jaime glanced behind her shoulder to Podrick, he looked extremely uncomfortable and took Jaime’s steely stare as his cue to leave. Brienne watched him go.

“We… didn’t really get to talk properly at the Dragonpit, did we?” He said softly.

“No, we didn’t. I wish we had more time.” Brienne said, though the grimace on her face suggested she immediately regretted her words. Too emotional, no doubt.

Jaime grunted in agreement. He wished the same. For years now their paths had crossed, again and again, but only ever briefly. Never long enough.

_ I wish we had more time_.

A small smile spread across his face as Brienne blushed bright red, her mouth opening and closing as if to speak, but no words coming forth. He wanted to laugh at her fluster but knew she would scorn him if he dared.

“So… uh, where’s the insult then?” She squeaked.

“What insult?” He questioned.

“Every time we have seen each other I have been subject to your quips within the first minute, but not today. Where is it?” She said seriously.

“I don’t have one, my lady.” He truly didn’t. There would only be so many words he could exchange with her before the battle with the dead, he would not waste them on insults any longer.

She scoffed at the title. She was not a lady, she would say. But neither was she a knight. “I’m shocked, Jaime, you love insulting me,” Her tone was more cheerful now, accepting the friendlier conversation that they were now having.

_ I do love insulting you, my lady Brienne, it makes your face look funny_, he thought, though he dared not speak it aloud. Instead, he simply laughed. Laughter was poison to his fear, it seemed. Laugh, and she would never know what he was really thinking.

“Walk with me,” She said, wiping her sweat-soaked hair from her face.

He obliged, accompanying her as they walked past the mishmash of soldiers outside the great stone castle. Daenerys Targaryen’s leather-clad soldiers were busy building a huge trench that wrapped around Winterfell, while the Northerners looked like they were attempting to set up barricades. The thought that these defences would be the only thing between them and the dead made his skin crawl.

“What will you do if we win, Ser Jaime?” Brienne finally asked, breaking the silence.

Jaime did not know the answer. Should Daenerys live, she would most definitely turn her armies south to Cersei. As he thought about it, he did not even want to go back to Cersei. She wasn’t the same. Or maybe she was, but now the veil had been lifted and he could see.

Jaime settled on an answer. “I don’t know if I'm honest.” 

She scoffed, “Jaime Lannister, honest? Who thought we would see the day?”

He grabbed her arm, stopping their amble around the keep. “I want to be. Honest, I mean. I want to be better.”

Brienne stood looking at his hand on her forearm, seemingly unable to yank herself away. She looked up once he had finished speaking.

“Better?” She asked quietly.

“Yes, better. I was a Kingsguard once, sworn to defend the King and his family… I’ve failed at that… a lot. I’m a knight, and I’ve not protected a single innocent since I drove my blade into the Mad King’s back. You have.” He said softly. He felt vulnerable again, just as he had done when he originally told her the tale of the Mad King’s last command. Now, it was a comfortable vulnerability. He trusted her, more than anyone in the world.

“I’m not a knight,” She said bluntly. _ You might as well be, Ser Brienne_, he thought. She had been a better knight in the last few years than all his years combined. She deserved the title, not him.

“You’re so noble, Brienne. Good, through and through. It’s a bit painful to watch sometimes,” He let out a small laugh. “But, every time I see you stick to your principles, defend others without thinking for yourself, with no thought of a reward - all I feel is envy... I wish to be a knight like you, Brienne of Tarth.”

Jaime believed it, with his whole heart. His speech, the closest he would want to get to telling her the truth. He loved her.

She looked back to him, her eyes wet with emotion. She had no retort to his words. “Jaime, that is the… kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Ah, well don’t get used to it. I’m a horrible man.” He joked, trying to deflect.

“Not as horrible as you used to be.” She replied firmly. He smiled then, a smile that deepened the crow’s feet nestled around his eyes. It was only then he realised how close they stood, staring at each other lovingly.

“It’s Jaime fucking Lannister!” A rough voice called from behind him. _ Why do people feel the need to declare my own name to me? _ He thought. He reluctantly took a step back from Brienne, turning around to find perhaps the next most annoying man in the Seven Kingdoms that wasn’t his brother.

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.

Jaime wanted to roll his eyes in annoyance. What could this man possibly want in Winterfell? Brienne scowled as well, pursing her lips. She was not a fan of the sellsword, the polar opposite of her morals. He couldn’t blame her.

“Beard’s looking a bit shit, Lannister. Not great for kissing those Northern lassies!” Bronn bellowed, winking at Brienne. _ She’s not even Northern, you idiot, it’s in her bloody name_.

“Bronn, what in the Seven Hells are you doing here?” Jaime asked.

“Your sister tried to kill me, woman’s paranoid I’ll assassinate her apparently,” Bronn said.

“And were you? Trying to kill her?” Brienne questioned, curious.

“No. Unless the Targaryen Queen wants me to, I’m sure she’s got coffers to spare.” Bronn smiled.

Jaime had yet to confront the possibility that Cersei may die. They had been together all their lives, and a world without her? He couldn’t quite imagine it. _ Perhaps an assassination would be a cleaner death_, he wondered. Daenerys Targaryen would no doubt not offer such mercy.

“So, you’re here to fight the dead? I’ve got to say I’m surprised Bronn, there are not many volunteers here.” Jaime said.

Bronn laughed, almost hysterically. “Fight the dead? Fuck off! No one’s paying me to shit my pants at an army of skeletons, so I’m good.”

“Then why are you even here? You literally could have gone to Dorne!” Brienne said, raising her voice. She was clearly annoyed that he wanted payment to fight the dead. Saving the realm should be payment enough.

“I’ve got debts to pay, Lannister,” Bronn chuckled nervously. “Now direct me to the nearest brothel and I’ll be out of your way.”

Brienne’s eyes narrowed at his words, suspicious. Jaime, too, felt uneasy about his words, but nonetheless gestured over to the small town nearby.

Bronn sauntered off with his hands in the pocket of his winter coat, whistling. They looked at each other one more time, confirming they were on the same page. The man was up to no good, and Jaime and Brienne knew it. Bronn was no Lannister but would pay his debts all the same, and the thought of what the sellsword had planned, and for who, sent a shiver down his spine.


	12. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are things to be learned even from the dead."

When Jon finally woke from his deep sleep, he felt comforted by the weight on his right arm. There she was, his Queen, hugging his arm as if it were a pillow. She looked so peaceful in sleep, the weight of crowns and kingdoms free from her shoulders. It was when her eyes were closed you could truly see how young she was. The world had been cruel to them both, perhaps crueller to her, from what she had mentioned to him. The world had fashioned her into steel and left the Princess of Dragonstone to perish in the cold.

_ Kill the boy_, Aemon had once told him. Let your childhood turn to ash, he might as well have said.

He continued to stare at her as she slept, admiring her features. Well, he had admired her features plenty the night before, but she looked so different now as she lay on his sheets. The morning sun was beginning to stream through the cracks in his window covers, illuminating her hair so that it looked like the sun. Jon thought it was the most heavenly sight he had seen.

Unfortunately, the rising of the sun meant that they were soon to be expected in the war room. Slowly and surely, they had begun formulating tactics to deal with the army of the dead but were struggling. None of them were true battle commanders, Jon himself having only commanded one small army. To his shock, Daenerys had suggested inviting Jaime Lannister to the meeting the previous evening - _ what else is he here for? _ She had said. Jon had to agree.

As Jon attempted to extract himself from Daenerys’ grasp, she woke, grabbing his arm tighter.

“I don’t want to leave,” She said softly.

He chuckled. “Neither do I, Dany.” She smiled at the nickname.

She sighed and let him go, remembering where they had to be. Jon struggled to find the will to stand from the bed and retrieve their clothes, only doing so once he heard Ghost whine from near the fireplace. Daenerys watched him like a hawk as he walked across the room with nothing on. He gave her one last wink before shoving his tunic and breeches on.

She was still laid across his bed, her silver hair sprawling over the cream sheets, when Jon walked over to pull her from the bed.

“No… A little longer,” She said. Jon laughed, pulling the covers from the bottom of the bed that covered her lower half. She yelped when she felt the sharp cold breeze. “That was rude, Lord Snow!”

Her smile widened, a sweet laugh echoing in the room. Jon handed her a dress that Missandei had sneaked into the room earlier that morning. It was similar to the one she had arrived in, but with extra fur around the collar, similar to his own. She put it on quickly, desperate to be warm, before moving to sit at the small vanity he had by the fire.

“I should probably do my hair properly for the meeting, do you mind retrieving Missandei?” She asked.

“I’ll do it.” He said quickly, without thinking.

She turned in the chair, her eyebrows raised incredulously. “You know how to braid hair?”

“Of course I do, who do you think taught Arya? Sansa?” He smiled, moving to stand by her side. She turned back around, and Jon could see her lovely smile reflected at him in the mirror.

“I can’t promise it’ll be as good as Missandei’s… she does do it pretty… intricate.” Jon was nervous now - what if she hated it?

They both stayed there in silence as he began to braid, slowly and methodically down both sides of her hair, intending on bringing them down into one long and wavy ponytail. He liked her hair down - it made her look softer - but he understood the need for appearances and the importance it had to her Dothraki followers.

“You look like Rhaegar,” Daenerys said abruptly.

Jon looked up slowly, distracted from his imperfect work. “Do I? How do you know?”

“I saw a man in a vision, he was with a woman and a baby. I knew it wasn’t Viserys so it must have been him. It must have been Rhaegar.” He had spoken to her of her trial in the House of the Undying, but never of what occurred inside. _ I wonder whether seeing visions would be useful, or whether it would drive you mad_. “I’m sorry I must sound insane!”

“No, No, definitely not. I just wasn’t expecting it. Everyone has always said I looked like a Stark, but that something was off slightly. It was Rhaegar. I wonder what he was like.” He said.

“Me too. I only have what Jorah and Barristan told me about him, it wasn’t much.” Her face was sad in the mirror, her eyes staring at nothing. “Barristan told me that Rhaegar liked to sing. Jorah told me that I was like him.” The thought of that comforted him. 

“Well, if you two are alike, my opinion of him has to be positive,” He smiled. If he was half the person Daenerys was, Jon would have been proud to call him his father. “As for the singing, it’s clearly not hereditary. Arya says I sing like a boar getting murdered.

Dany laughed then, though she had yet to hear him sing. But when she finished, her face was tinged with an emotion he could not place.

“You two are very close,” She said. They were, it had always been him and Arya against the rest. She was special to him, more so than the rest of his siblings - cousins - though he still loved them dearly. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. The emotion was envy, he realised. “Viserys was cruel, but he was my brother still. I loved him, I really did, he was all I ever knew.”

“Brothers are there to protect their little sisters,” Jon said.

She scoffed. “They are. I wish mine had.”

She had not gone into much detail about her marriage to a Dothraki warlord, but he was aware of her brother’s part in it. He hated him for it. Jon could not even stomach the thought of selling Arya to a stranger for an army, nevermind when she was just a child. Jon placed a kiss to the top of her head, now newly adorned with braids. She smiled, though only slightly, no doubting thinking of the man she named her golden dragon for. The dragon they were to fight in the upcoming battle. Jon gently pulled her from her seat.

“Come here,” He said softly. He pulled her into a hug, his head resting on top of hers. _ Let her be vulnerable now_, he thought, _ so she can wield fire without fear outside this room. _

They readied themselves to leave, Daenerys clasping her chain to her dress and Jon sheathing his beloved Longclaw when the door burst open. A behemoth of fur and ginger catapulted into Jon, plucking him from the ground into a tight squeeze. Tormund. Of course, Tormund wasn’t done there, as when he spotted Daenerys standing a few feet from Jon he pulled her into a tight hug as well. When he lifted her from the ground, Daenerys looked thoroughly dismayed. Jon mouthed his apologies to her from across the room.

“Tormund, put the Queen down please,” Jon said, attempting to keep a smile from his face.

He obliged, placing her gingerly back onto the floor, her hair now slightly more dishevelled than before and her face seemingly registering no other emotion but shock at his impropriety.

“Apologies, Dragon Queen, but I never got a chance to thank you for saving me on that big beast of yours!” Tormund beamed. Jon saw Daenerys scowl at the description of Drogon, _ they’re not beasts to me_, she had said atop the cliffs of Dragonstone. “You’re welcome with the Freefolk, Queen Daenerys, I’ve been telling them non-stop about the beautiful Queen who soared through the sky to save me! They all think you're actually a dragon though.”

Daenerys laughed, humbled by his words. _ Probably not just to save you, Tormund, but think what you will_, he thought. All three in the room chuckled.

“How come you’re here, anyway? What news from the wall?” Jon asked. Tormund’s face dropped, and with it, Jon and Dany’s faces too.

“The Wall has fallen at Eastwatch. He used the dragon.” Tormund replies. Daenerys’ brow furrows, in fear and grief. “The Night King will be here by nightfall, without a doubt.”

Silence fell on the room, the three unable to say anything. The day they had dreaded had finally come, no matter how much they avoided it in their minds. Years of planning and preparing and calling for help had come to this very day. Jon was ready.

“So be it,” Jon said. The Night King shall be dead tonight, or they will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I cannot write smut for SHIT so will not be included in this fic, apologies. If anyone wants to fill in the gaps, feel free to do so!
> 
> (I'm also aware the show didn't actually show the rest of Dany's House of the Undying visions, like seeing Rhaegar, the Red Wedding and the blue flower in the ice, but I'm gonna retcon for the purpose of this fic to say she did)
> 
> One more chapter and then the army of the dead shall be upon us! Don't worry, it won't just be a narrative of the show version - I've changed it up a little bit. Excited though, as afterwards, I get to delve into my canon-divergent game of thrones free for all! Then the real fun begins ;)
> 
> Expect some delay as I take the time to write the roughly 6 POVs that will form the BoW :)
> 
> Next up: Jaime III


	13. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Young or old, a true knight is sworn to protect those who are weaker than himself, or die in the attempt."

They had been at the war table for hours, meticulously planning every detail of the defence of Winterfell. Rough plans had been there before, but now, they had to be real. The lines of defence: trench, Khalasar, walls, Northerners on the walls, Unsullied either side defending the gates, the rest of us amongst the castle grounds, and then civilians in the crypt. Easy. Well, not easy, they had a whole army of the dead to battle in the midst of all that. Jaime was worried. Very worried. People in this castle, people in this room, would not see the sunrise tomorrow, and the thought terrified him. Men died in battle all the time, but never was it multiple armies against death itself.

After his encounter with Bronn, Daenerys had invited him to the meeting, via Tyrion, to give his input on the plans. Tyrion seemed confident about his idea of putting the armies in front of the trench before Jaime shot him down. Jaime had wanted to roll his eyes, the man had led the defence of King’s Landing for crying out loud! When the Queen and Jon Snow finally dismissed them, Jaime almost wanted to go to bed, but as soon as he hit the cold air outside the adrenaline kicked in. He could die tonight. He didn’t mind, _maybe dying in defence of Winterfell will stop Catelyn Stark from slapping me when I enter the afterlife, should it exist_, he thought. Though he doubted the brave Lady Stark was in hell.

He stood outside, observing the panicked movement of the soldiers and civilians within the keep. Here he was scared, and the women and children preparing to file into the crypt had likely never seen battle in their life. _Don’t be selfish, Jaime_, he thought. They would endure a worse fear than him, he reminded himself. To his side, a few familiar faces were going back into the keep, heading towards the Great Hall. The blacksmith boy, Ser Davos, as well as some scraggly ginger bloke. It was when Tyrion walked past him that the congregation gained his attention.

“Are you joining, brother?” Tyrion asked from across the courtyard. Jaime did not wish to be alone, so followed.

Inside, a small group sat around a fire at the far end of the hall, the rest of the room in near-complete darkness. They were laughing and joking, sipping on their wines and ales. A toast: to their last night alive. He pulled a chair from the side of the hall and brought it next to his brother’s. Tyrion already looked deep in his cups, with a wet beard and slumped posture. He couldn’t blame him, seeing as Daenerys had ordered him not to fight. His brother’s mind was better than his sword hand, and Jaime was glad Daenerys recognised that. Another group entered, composed of Podrick, Arya Stark and Brienne. They all seemed to be laughing, joking. It was an odd sight. Brienne pulled up a seat next to Jaime, and Podrick next to her in turn. Arya, however, stared a hole right through his skull, all the while placing her chair next to Gendry’s. She only halted her death stare when Gendry started speaking to her.

“How are you feeling?” Brienne asked.

“Nothing like a good old battle to the death to get your heart going. I’m getting old, it might just give it out halfway through.” Jaime jested. Tyrion baulked at his comment, and Brienne rolled her eyes. He nodded to her, asking her the same.

“Fine. We will all fight well.” Brienne declared. Ah, the overconfidence. So much faith in her peers that, considering he had lost his fighting hand, really wasn’t warranted. Brienne was not one for comfort or soothing words, especially not in a situation like this, and Jaime knew it. Instead, he nodded his head in agreement, his eyes set on hers._ I will fight well for you, Brienne, as best as I can._

He would be noble, he decided. If he was to die, he would do it in the defence of another. Yes, that was the way to go.

“Now! Let’s stop talking about fighting dead men and get to drinking!” Tyrion cheered, attempting to lighten the mood. The crowd around them sang songs and joked about brothels and inns, as many a soldier would. Three or four cups in, and you would forget the souls around this fireplace would face the greatest threat the realm had ever seen in but a few hours.

Jaime did not drink. Over the years the stench of wine began to repulse him, with it littered all over the Red Keep, and he wanted a fresh head for the night to come. There’s a man fighting left-handed, and then there’s a man fighting left-handed drunk.

They all continued to chatter, about the battles they had fought, the duels they had won. It all seemed very surreal.

“I think we’ll live, you know,” Tyrion said, downing his cup once again. They all looked at him and laughed. “What? I mean it! Look who’s in this room! Ser Davos Seaworth, fought in the Battle of Blackwater Bay and the Battle of the Bastards! Lady Arya Stark, managed to not only escape the grasp of my family in King’s Landing but survive the next few years to tell the tale! Ser Jaime Lannister, famed kingsguard and commander of the Battle of the Whispering Wood!”

“Famed _loser_ of the Whispering Wood, just to clarify,” Jaime said, as he stood to pour himself some water. He didn’t need reminding of that loss.

“Tormund Giantsbane, warrior of the Freefolk! Ser Brienne of T- Sorry, Lady Brienne,” Tyrion continued. Brienne pursed her lips.

“Wait, she’s not a knight?” Tormund questioned, stunned. She shook her head quickly, as if ashamed. When Tormund continued to look at her, she spoke up.

“Women can’t be knights, it’s tradition.” She replied bluntly.

“Fuck tradition. If I was a king, I’d knight you ten times over.” Tormund stood and raised his glass in her name.

Jaime paused. _You don’t need a king, only another knight_. He was a knight. He hadn’t even registered he had said it aloud until he walked over to the centre of the room and pulled out his Valyrian steel sword. She looked at him, confused.

“Kneel.” He said.

She continued to stay seated, her eyes boring into his in astonishment. She looked to Podrick, who gave her a small smile. _Let me do this for you, one last thing before I die tonight. Let it be my atonement to you_, he pleaded in his mind.

“Well? Do you want to be a knight or not?” He asked, prompting her to move again. “Kneel.”

This time, she stood and walked to where he had drawn his sword. She knelt, hesitant, afraid, fearing rejection, fearing the punchline to another cruel joke. Instead, he placed the sword upon her shoulder.

“In the name of the warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.” She looked as if she was going to cry, her mouth curling up into a small smile. The sight made his heart fill with pride, fill with love. “Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

And she stood, braver and truer a knight than he would ever be.

The room erupted in applause, cheering her name and toasting to her health. Brienne smiled, widely and genuinely, as he gazed at her from a mere few feet away. He could not give her the world, but he could give her this.  
“Jaime… thank you.” She said, as the crowd before them began singing and dancing to the sound of Podrick’s tune.

He smiled at her then. He did not need her thanks, only her smile. She would defend Winterfell as an honourable knight, and that was all that mattered to him. Should he hug her? Kiss her? He did not know, but it did not matter. Her being here was all he needed.

When he sheathed his sword, she took his hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Thank you.” She said, firmer this time. _I love you_, was what she really meant.

A horn blasted in the distance.

The room stopped.

A second blast.

Jaime and Brienne looked to the door and then each other, eyes full of fear. Nothing happened for a moment, the group holding their breath for what no doubt would come next.

A third blast.

In an instant, the brave men and women in the room dropped their cups and gathered their weapons, storming out the large oak doors to face death itself. Brienne squeezed his hand again and left as well. Jaime followed.

He would be a knight tonight, he thought, as brave and true as Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne getting knighted was the best scene to come out of season 8 and you CANNOT change my mind! Was quite possibly the last point of the show where a scene made me feel any other emotion that was not rage or confusion.
> 
> *Looks at Major Character Death archive warning* Shall we begin? Heheheheh


	14. Daenerys IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid?"

“Jon!” Daenerys shouted as she ran across the courtyard, Jorah watching her as she scurried to her lover. 

Night had fallen quickly, and so Daenerys, accompanied by Jorah, had been busy ensuring her armies had everything they needed. She had barely seen him all evening, as he had been doing the same. Jon turned at the sound of her voice, embracing her once she was close enough.

“We’ll be alright, we’ll be alright,” Jon whispered. She desperately wished it was that certain. She pulled from his embrace to search his eyes. He nodded again, hoping to strengthen her resolve. Daenerys had seen battle before but never had the stakes been so high. The future of the realm, of humanity, rested on this very fight. The thought terrified her.

Behind them, they heard Davos begin to yell. He stormed past them to get into the face of a woman cloaked in red.

“How dare you return here, you evil woman!” Davos bellowed, shaking his fists. Jon looked to Daenerys quickly, before they both rushed to the scene. Davos looked as if his rage was hanging on by a thread. Daenerys recognised the woman, Melisandre of Asshai, who had come to assist her when she landed on Dragonstone.

“Melisandre?” Daenerys questioned. Jon glanced at Dany through the corner of his eye, intrigued by how she knew of the sorceress. She would explain another time.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Davos was right in the Red Woman’s face then, but the witch maintained a calm demeanour, looking straight past him and to Jon. Her face was solemn, unafraid. Daenerys got between them, pushing Davos back with as much force as her small form could muster. They did not need an execution in the middle of a battle.

“You will not need to, Ser Davos. I will be dead by dawn.” Melisandre said cooly. She breezed past the raging old man and looked straight at Jon and herself. She bowed, before disappearing towards the Godswood where Bran had been left in hopes of setting a trap.

Davos followed her as she walked, his jaw clenched and fist around his sword. Jon placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, indicating for the man to join Beric in the Godswood to protect Bran. He obeyed, though his frown did not ease. Jon sighed.

In a flash, Jon turned around and kissed her, passionately and deeply. Daenerys wanted to stay like that forever. When they broke the kiss, he stared right at her.

“I love you.” He said.

“And I, you.” She replied.

He left her then, his hand pulling at her own as he walked away. The man looked close to tears, keeping his eyes on hers as he retreated to the castle walls. And then he was gone. Daenerys felt alone. Around her, women and children were crowding into the crypts, the armies they amassed hurriedly getting into position.

Her Unsullied marched either side of her, heading to the front gate where they would act as the next line of defence should the trench and walls fail. When they failed_. _ Mhysa, they whispered, as they passed her. _ I am not your mother_, she wanted to scream, _ I have led you to your deaths_. _ What sort of mother does that? _

Grey worm grabbed her shoulder, his hand firm on her white coat. Not as a commander talking to his Queen, but a man talking to his friend. She could only see his eyes through his charcoal coloured helmet, but she could tell they looked at her with love.

“I can see what you are thinking, Daenerys Stormborn. Do not. I would rather die a free man than spend a thousand years in chains. I go to the gate willingly, Breaker of Chains.” His voice was strong, unwavering. He believed it. He truly did. The man glanced over to where Missandei was only just entering the crypts. She would be safe and that was all that mattered to him. Grey Worm bowed, and brought a hand to his chest in salute, before joining his men.

Daenerys felt as if she couldn’t breathe, following them outside so she could mount Drogon. Her sons were lighting the trench as she walked through Winterfell’s large gates, her figure behind her cast so that she looked as if she were a giant in the snow. For the first time in her life, she approached her son in fear. Not in fear of him, but in fear of what followed. The Dothraki around her, and the Unsullied which stood by them and within the gates, banged their weapons as she walked through. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she hoped to be one day. Mhysa, Breaker of Chains and Khaleesi, she was today.

She could hear screeching in the distance, getting closer with every few seconds that passed. There was no more time. She mounted Drogon as quickly as she could, flying into the blackened sky alongside Rhaegal. A part of her wished she could have convinced Jon to ride him, but he had a Valyrian steel sword, he was better on the ground. That did not stop Daenerys wishing she was not alone in the sky.

More screeching. The quick thumps of feet on snow, getting closer and closer. Daenerys looked down, flying as low as she could, but saw nothing. Only Winterfell, surrounded in a ring of fire, could be spotted in the winter snow. _ I am afraid_, she called to the Gods, to her ancestors, to any higher power that could listen.

“Valar Morghulis!” She heard Grey Worm declare.

“Valar Dohaeris!” Her brave Unsullied chanted in reply.

When she looked down again, the blackness had changed. It was moving, quicker and quicker, louder and louder, until it crashed into the trench like a wave. They were piling on top of each other, creating a bridge, reaching her men. The Dothraki horses trembled and fled. The Dothraki weapon was fear. How do you scare an enemy who feels no fear? These men had followed her across the Narrow Sea, swearing to help her take her throne. She swore she would protect them in return.

“Dracarys!” She yelled to her sons, prompting the beasts to unleash hell upon the dead men below. 

_ The night is dark and full of terrors_, Melisandre had once told her, _ but the fire burns them all away. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will be coming out in quick succession (I have literally nothing to do during this lockdown so VOILA)!


	15. Arya II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water.”

They were banging on the gates. Daenerys’ men. Panicked, afraid.

_Let us in_, they pleaded.

No one opened the gates.

Up above, she could see the Dragon Queen unleash flame upon the dead, brightening the night. It mattered not. On the castle walls, she could see the Northerners struggling to keep them from entering the keep. The dead would find their way into Winterfell one way or another.

The gate started splintering then, planks of wood shooting off the hinges, undead hands grasping inside. Arya had only ever seen such a sight in her nightmares.

“Stand your ground!” Brienne shouted beside her. The men and women around them crouched, bracing themselves.

And then it crashed open.

Wights poured in, slashing and biting at anything they saw, overwhelming the men that stood at the gates. In seconds, the men at the gates were all dead. Arya dashed at the first one that dared to come close and cut through its head with her dragonglass spear. Then another. And another. Arya did not have time to take a breath as they came at her relentlessly.

Slowly, the group moved backwards, unable to hold their positions in the face of the horde. She could see out of the corner of her eyes the wights spilling over the walls like water, annihilating the archers on the ramparts. She saw Jon and the Northerners, fighting them off as best they could. A few of the Unsullied that had survived the onslaught managed to squeeze through the gates once the dead had moved to surround the entirety of the castle walls, Daenerys’ commander being one of them. Some were missing limbs, some a lot of blood. _ We should have let them in_, Arya thought. The Unsullied that had remained inside had fared far better.

A man appeared in the gateway, his hair as white as snow. When he got closer, Arya saw his icy blue skin, and that it was not one man, but many. Arya did not even have time to register the White Walkers in front of her before they unsheathed their blades and cut down Edd of the Night’s Watch, slashing his throat.

Brienne and Jaime moved forward then as one, swords ready. Arya ran forward, slashing one of the Walker’s ankles with Needle, causing it to collapse to the floor in what seemed like pain. Jaime beheaded it, and it crumbled to ice. More remained. Another advanced, swinging an axe of cold straight at her. She ducked, only to then be kicked to the ground. She scrambled away from the figure as it stalked towards her, its eyes dripping blue. Gendry smashed it in the head with his war hammer, causing it to bullet to the floor. Arya scurried from the ground, grabbing her dagger and thrusting it into its throat, turning it to ice. Gendry looked at her. He was injured, blood pouring down the left side of his face from a head wound. He grabbed her hand to pull her to her feet, squeezing it as he did. He looked brave.

A flash of blue fame washed over them then, burning the outer buildings. She could see Podrick, Brienne’s squire attempt to put himself out before collapsing to the floor in a heap. Brienne screamed as he did. The Hound backed away from the flames coating the main building, crashing into Arya in his fear. The dead did not stop for the flames.

“FIGHT!” Arya screamed at him. There was no time for fear.

Arya thought she had seen war before, thought she knew what death entailed. Not like this, not at this scale. The wights never stopped, no break, no rest. Arya had no idea how much time had even passed since they first poured through the gates of her home. In the sky, she saw Daenerys and her dragons claw at the Night King’s mount, attempting to drag him from the sky. The green dragon had his wing ripped before dropping out of the fight, flames dashing across the sky like shooting stars. Jon was looking up from where he stood on the ramparts too, his face plagued with worry. He ran.

Arya turned to the White Walkers still advancing on them. The Hound clashed his sword with one, causing it to stumble. He bashed and bashed until it backed up into the blade of Brienne of Tarth, breaking into pieces. Another walker appeared behind her, slashing at her back.

Arya sprinted, climbing onto its back to shove her dagger into its chest. It stopped her, grabbing her arm as she tried, spinning in circles in an attempt to get her off. It dropped its weapon, using its other hand to grab her by the hair and throw her to the ground, bringing its foot to stamp on her head. Hard.

Jon’s friend, the Wildling, tackled him to the ground in her defence. He punched the Walker and slashed at him with his axe, but the Walker was too quick, too strong. It cut through Tormund’s sword hand like butter, severing it in one clean motion. He collapsed off the Walker in pain, screaming as the Hound pulled him out of the way of a group of wights. Gendry and Arya seized the moment to finish off the Walker on the ground, another horde of wights collapsing from their fight. But still, there were more, more shattering bones and ungodly screeches coming for their blood. 

  
_ Would it ever end? Will I ever rest? _ Arya thought. _ Only when I’m dead. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry
> 
> (Episode 3 rant: you're telling me an undead dragon and numerous white walkers descended on Winterfell and NO ONE got killed by either? Trash!)


	16. Jaime IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Winter will never come for the likes of us. Should we die in battle, they will surely sing of us, and it's always summer in the songs. In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining."

_ No, no, no, no, NO! _

Brienne was bleeding from her back, her legs giving out the instant the Walker’s icy steel finished its swing. Jaime cried out in horror at the sight. The Stark girl had the walker engaged, so Jaime grabbed Brienne by her steel pauldrons as far as he could take her. The Hound covered his flight, fighting off wights that dared to come near.

Brienne was groaning in pain, her face sweating with the effort of breathing. He continued to drag her as best he could, until they lay near the steps to the crypts, safe enough for now. No one would let them in, he knew that, but the doorway would do. If he could stay here long enough, then he could get her help.

“Jaime?” She groaned, weakly.

“You’re going to be fine! Don’t say anything.” Jaime replied frantically. A part of him did not believe his own words.

Her eyes were fluttering, blood beginning to slide from the corner of her mouth and down her pale cheek. _ Please don’t take her from me, _ Jaime pleaded to the Gods. Nothing would shatter his heart more than that. _ It should be me! _ He thought. Noble Brienne of Tarth had the rest of her life to live, as a brave knight, a defender of innocents. Jaime had squandered his and accepted his fate.

She looked up at him then, a weak smile on her face. “I wish we had more time…” 

Her hand grazed his cheek, a sweet gesture from a woman known for her brutality. Jaime wept as she did. He could not hear the fighting around them, nor the roars of the dragons above. Only the sound of her breathing as it slowly drew to a close. When her hand dropped from his face, Jaime sobbed as his heart shattered in his chest. He held her close, rocking her as her blood pooled around him on the steps.

_ I wish we had more time, _she had said to him.

Now, there was no time left at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY
> 
> Very short, but didn't want to stick it on the end of Arya's POV.
> 
> (I said, "I wish we had more time" as a throwaway line a few chapters ago and? how about I break my own heart with it?)


	17. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do the dead frighten you?"

The crypts were drearier than she remembered them. Sansa had not made a habit of coming down here often. She had found it too depressing. Now, hundreds were packed into her ancestors’ final resting place. A part of her screamed that it was a desecration, while another knew there was nowhere else for them to go.

Sansa heard a dragon scream above.

She felt as if she had been transported back to the Blackwater, useless to control what was happening outside these walls. She wanted control of her fate, but she wouldn’t have it yet again. Tyrion walked over to her, handing her a drink. She refused it.

“I was going to suggest we toast. A toast to the fighters above.” Tyrion said. Missandei took the drink from him instead.

“To the Dragon Queen, Jon Snow, and the brave men and women above,” Missandei said. A few of the people around them said nothing, distrustful of the foreign woman. A few murmured their agreement. Sansa ignored her, she would not toast to Daenerys Targaryen.

“So, what happens after this?” Sansa asked her one-time husband. He looked at her, and then the ceiling, pondering her question.

“I suppose Daenerys turns South and battles Cersei.” He replied.

“But what happens to the North, Tyrion?” Sansa demanded.

Missandei and Tyrion both glanced at her then. She ignored the bitter stare of the foreign woman.

“I have no answer for you, Lady Stark. So many possibilities, so many outcomes.” Tyrion said, spinning his now empty glass in his hands.

“Only one real one. Daenerys Targaryen sits on the Iron Throne. I’d be willing to bet coin on it. ” Sansa replied, wanting to rise from her seat.

“As would I… though I never bet against my family, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion smirked. Sansa found the comment odd. Daenerys, unless she perished in this battle, would annihilate King’s Landing. There would likely not even be a siege. What were a thousand men against two grown dragons?

Sansa turned in her seat away from him. This was her home, her crypt. She did not wish to speak with Lannisters or Essossi while she sat with the ghosts of the Starks. She stared at the statue of her father. It didn’t look right - the sculptor had clearly not known his likeness. At least the coffin below was ornate and pretty. But… there appeared to be a crack in it that she had not noticed before. She moved closer, moving her hand to caress the fresh crack.

A hand burst out.

She screamed, scrambling off her small stool and away from the skeleton. Around her, she heard more cries and screams as all the coffins began to burst open, skeletons and corpses crawling out from their stone graves.

“RUN!” Tyrion yelled.

The corpses stalked towards them, hands razor-sharp and poised to kill. The screeches and the stench were of horror that Sansa had only ever seen in nightmares.

They fled deeper into the crypt, more and more dead Starks ripping out of the stone. When she turned, she saw Missandei be clawed in the face by a horrid skeleton, only saved by the pull of Varys the Spider nearby. She bled profusely from her cheek, her eye seemingly blinded. Afraid, Tyrion pulled out a weapon and dragged Sansa into an alcove. She could not control her breathing, to the point where she hyperventilated. _ I’m going to die_, she thought. _ I’m going to die! _ Even if they were to win the battle above, they would find only a massacre below. Tyrion attempted to calm her as screams echoed down the hall.

“Sam! Sam, run!” A voice called out from around the corner. A boy stood there, staring at his mother as she was grabbed and clawed at by a group of wights. “SAM, PLEASE!”

The boy cried but did not move. Sansa ran out of the alcove, Tyrion protesting behind her, and plucked the boy from the ground. The woman in front of them was overwhelmed and Sansa did not turn in time to stop the little boy from watching his mother’s throat and chest be torn to shreds, blood pouring down her grey dress and onto the floor.

_ So much blood_, Sansa thought, attempting to soothe the boy once she returned to the alcove. Tyrion looked as if he were crying, shaking with fear. She could not blame him. More hordes ran past them then, slaughtering the innocent people who had sought this place as a safety.

Sansa could do nothing but weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip Gilly, if it wasn't obvious
> 
> Sansa's a bit of a bitch, but she's not heartless enough to not save a child.


	18. Jon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We don't choose our destinies but we must do our duties."

When Jon saw the Night King fall from his dragon, he could have cheered. He seemed to have fallen just inside the castle, near to when Bran had volunteered to be set out as bait. It was time to end this, once and for all.

Jon broke out into a sprint, stopping for no one. He ignored the fighting and pain occurring in the courtyard - had he spotted Arya dead on the floor, he knew he would not have been able to carry on. So instead, he rushed past them and through the archway by the crypts. The Hound and Jaime Lannister stood there, defending the door from wights, the body of Brienne of Tarth lifeless at his feet.

To his side, a swarm of wights surrounded a group of Northern soldiers. Among them, Sam. Jon could see the door to the Godswood from here. It was burning, half-collapsed and inviting him in.

“Jon! Help!” His friend screamed, slashing at the creatures in front of him. “Jon!”

Sam was brought to the ground, the wights clawing at his gambeson, drawing blood. Jon looked again at the Godswood gate.

_Forgive me, old friend. _Jon looked to Sam one final time before running away. He headed straight to the door, Sam’s screaming getting louder behind him before finally stopping. Jon clenched his jaw at the loss.

From the burning gate, Davos emerged, his beard stained with blood and sweat.

“The Night King, we couldn’t- I’m sorry!” Davos almost wept, the blood already beginning to dry on his clothes.

Jon stopped for him and brought him into a quick hug. They both needed it. Davos pulled back as if remembering something.

“Jon! Bran’s just- he said Daenerys is on the ground!” Davos yelled. The thought made Jon feel sick. She had fallen from Drogon, that is why he hadn’t seen him recently. No doubt she would be outside the walls, surrounded by wights. Jon wanted to turn around, to flee to her side and protect his Queen, his love. He knew he couldn’t.

“Go find her! Protect her! Please!” Jon said, continuing his descent into the dark forest before him. _If I kill him, I kill all of them, then she’s safe_, he thought.

The forest looked evil now, desolate, despite being a place of comfort all his life. The trees were dark and dominating, blocking most of the light created by the burning castle. In fact, you could barely hear the fight. Not the clashing of swords, nor the screams of the horde. If Jon was not so afraid, it almost could have been peaceful.

Bran was by the Weirwood tree, calmly talking with the Red Woman. Beric was dead not a few feet away from them, lying in blood-covered snow, his chest broken apart by a spear of ice. He had tried to fight the Night King, it seemed, but failed.

Melisandre turned when she heard the crunching of Jon’s boots on the snow. She looked to Beric sadly, and then to Jon. Before she could say anything, the Night King appeared from around the white tree and swung at him.

Jon deflected it, the screech of their swords clashing together ringing in his ears. When Jon stumbled back, he swore he heard the Night King laugh. He brought his icy blade down once again, almost knocking Longclaw from his hands. Jon picked himself back up, thrusting his blade at the Night, but missing.

The monster’s icy hand smacked him hard across the face, cutting him right below his right eye. Jon fell to the floor in pain, blood pouring from the wound, Longclaw thrown from his grip. Jon crawled to retrieve it, the snow soaking through his sleeves, but the Night King stood on his leg and prevented his escape. Jon cried out in anguish, the boot beginning to crush his leg.

When Jon looked back, Melisandre had grabbed his sword, chanting Valyrian so loudly and sharply it could have broken glass. The Night King, distracted by the sorceress’ chanting, ignored Jon for just a moment. Jon grabbed his leg, bringing the ice king stumbling to the ground.

Drogon circled the clearing without his rider, disturbing the snow that lay on the trees so that it fell on him and his opponent. He roared ferociously, his mouth poised to rain fire on the Night King. When Jon and the Night King looked up, the dragon’s eyes were not the deep blood red he was used to, but white. Drogon unleashed a storm of flame that lasted a mere few seconds before an icy and decaying dragon swooped from the sky to tackle his brother from the sky.

It was all Jon needed though. When he arose and turned back to Melisandre, he spotted his sword. He grabbed it as quickly as he could and charged the Night King, a trail of blood following his as he ran. Behind him, Melisandre resumed her Valyrian chants, bathing the trees and snow around them in flame.

The Night King parried the blow, as quick as a fox, returning his own slash in a matter of seconds. Jon dodged and stumbled backwards, resuming his battle stance as the monster advanced. He felt weak. Tired. Like he was going to die.

Jon’s sword erupted in flame, and behind him, Melisandre collapsed.

The Night King swung, straight for the head. Jon blocked him, and the two held their clash for a moment - grey eyes meeting blue. Flame meeting Ice. In his head, a man spoke to him, an unfamiliar voice. The man’s voice filled him with energy, with a power he had never felt.

“He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire. There must be one more. The dragon has three heads.” The voice whispered.

_So be it._

In a roar, Jon pushed the Night King back with his flaming sword, swinging Longclaw around his head quick and hard. When it crashed into the Night King’s neck, the monster wailed, his thorned head crumbling to dust before it even hit the floor. His body, collapsing and breaking apart as if it were dry clay.

Jon fell to his knees, his flaming sword melting the snow on the ground. In the distance, he could hear the screeches of the dead bursting as they fell to the ground, the cheers to the men who had fought all night against them. In the sky, Viserion collapsed mid-flight, plummeting from the sky without so much as a roar to land just outside the castle.

He had done it.

Melisandre was nowhere to be found, her dress and cape collapsed in a heap next to Bran. His brother simply smiled. Jon smiled back weakly before falling forward into the snow in exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo! Jon deserved to kill the NK, you can't change my mind.
> 
> My other thoughts:  
1\. there is no way Sam would have survived the battle (did I just orphan Little Sam... yes... do I regret it... no)  
2\. Bran should have warged a dragon, no matter how insignificant  
3\. Melisandre goes poof, but for a reason other than "my work here is done" "but you didn't do anything!"
> 
> END OF BATTLE OF WINTERFELL


	19. Daenerys V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl."

Daenerys cradled Jorah in her arms as he lay dying. The creatures around them had collapsed moments before, but not before they could do untold damage to her old friend. He looked weak and pale, and Daenerys wept at the sight.

Jorah could not get any words out before his eyes glazed over and his mouth went slack. She shook him. Once. Twice. He would not move, would not wake. Daenerys let out a wail, crying for the man who had served her, protected her, all these years. Daenerys had never felt such grief.

He had been there when Viserys had died, when Drogo had been lost to her, when her little boy had entered the world without ever drawing breath. He stayed by her side, and then returned to it even after she had dismissed him. He should have been her Hand, then he would have been in the crypts. Safe. Alive.

But then, she also would be dead.

Davos ran over to her, clutching his wounded arm. She continued to sob and wail, louder than she had ever done before. The old man hugged her and tried to pry her from Jorah’s body, but she would not let go. Drogon circled her above, his cry mimicking her own. She wanted to stay, just a little longer.

“Your Grace… Daenerys… let’s go.” Davos soothed. She did not want to be a Queen right now. She wanted to be a woman, one grieving for the loss of a man who loved her. A man she loved back, if not in the same way. Grey Worm joined him, looking no better. The skin on his arms was torn and bleeding, a deep gash on the top of his head where his helmet had failed.

“We will look after him.” Grey Worm spoke softly.

Only then did she let go of his armour. Davos lifted her from her knees as she wept, the tears on her face mixing with the blood and soot from the battle. Grey Worm and the Unsullied raised Jorah onto their shoulders, carrying him into the keep behind her.

Davos did not let go of her, his arms cocooned around her body as she half-walked, half-stumbled into the courtyard. She did not wish to turn around again. She did not wish to see the corpse of the man who had defended her until his last breath. If she were to look back, she would be lost to her grief.

“You’ll be alright, child,” Davos said to her quietly. _ I will, but what about the rest? _ She thought. He squeezed her a little tighter in comfort, a fatherly but sad smile on his face. Some of the Northerners stared at her as she sobbed. 

There had been so much blood, so much death, when she had been thrown from Drogon and onto the ground. Everything looked so much cleaner from the sky. The sight of the soldiers on the ground as she was walked through the yard made Daenerys want to retch.

Arya stood before her, nearer to the door to the main keep. _ Don’t let them see me like this. _She rushed over, despite looking injured herself, and took a weeping Daenerys from Davos’ grip. She had shared few words with the young Stark, and it seemed it would remain that way as Arya hurriedly walked her through Winterfell’s crumbling corridors.

The girl pushed open the door to her room, which Daenerys had been staying in, and sat her on the bed. The girl herself looked worn and tired, tears streaming down her face. She began to unbutton her blood-soaked dress.

“How many?” Daenerys sobbed. Arya’s eyes shot up to hers and her lip trembled.

“I don’t know,” She replied. Arya ripped off the furs on her shoulder, discarding it and the chain on the floor. “You’ll feel better once you’re in new clothes.”

Daenerys’ heart sank. How old was Arya Stark? Twenty? Younger? The girl was compartmentalising the entire battle with practice. Daenerys was grateful for her at that moment. And so, she stepped out of her dress and into a new one, one that was grey and red and clean. Arya threw her old one into the fireplace and lit it. 

“Do you want to sleep?” Arya asked.

“No.” Daenerys feared what nightmares would come for her if she did. They had been awake all night, but it was not exhaustion Dany felt anymore.

The girl nodded, before leaving the room as quickly as she had arrived. Daenerys was alone.

She had no idea how much time had passed since being pried from Jorah’s body, since the end of the battle. She did not wish to return outside, in fear of finding more bodies she did not wish to see. She heard the rattle of Unsullied guards stand at her door, and Dany finally felt safe enough to sob again.

She sat on the floor of her room for hours, tears streaming for her eyes. _ What if Jon is dead?_ She kept thinking. But she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t face the world outside these walls. Jorah would have helped her, comforted her, as she searched for her lover, but he too was gone.

A knock at the door.

Daenerys carried herself off the floor and stumbled to the door. When she opened it, Jon stood there. She cried out in joy, wrapping her arms around his neck as he stepped into the room. His face was clean, but a nasty scar would grace his cheek once it healed. Daenerys had never been so happy to see him in her life. Her joy and laughter turned to tears. Jon still said nothing, too busy holding her tight. He shushed her and soothed her as she cried, his own tears dropping onto her dress.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” She said. Glad he was alive, glad he had come to her in her grief. Who else had they lost this day?

“We’re going to burn the dead soon.” He said quietly. She nodded and kissed him on his uninjured cheek.

“Let’s go, then.” She said softly. _ Leave your tears in this room, Daenerys_. She needed to be a Queen when she stepped outside.

He took her hand, walking side by side with her as they approached the large oak doors of the main keep. Daenerys held her breath as he opened it.

The sunlight was almost blinding. The bodies were gone from the ground, but the blood and damage remained. Winterfell’s once beautiful courtyard was a carcass, beams and balconies collapsed on the ground and rubble strewn across the mud. Jon closed his eyes, unable to look at it, so Daenerys squeezed his hand a little tighter.

They walked straight to the main gate, where Daenerys could see a large pyre had been built for the dead. The size of it horrified her, with even Drogo’s ceremonial pyre barely covering half of it. The dead were lined up perfectly next to each other, row by row, their weapons in their hands. At the front, lay the bodies of their closest friends.

Jorah Mormont. Brienne of Tarth. Beric Dondarrion. Podrick Payne. Samwell Tarly. Gilly. Northerners. Dothraki. Unsullied.

The crowd that had gathered were crying, each of them having lost someone who now lay upon the great pyre. Even Sansa Stark, who Daenerys had assumed cried nothing but crocodile tears, wept at the sight of it.

Daenerys let out a breath upon seeing Missandei alive and well at the side, though her face horribly disfigured. Her left eye was blinded, horrid claw marks streaked across her face. The sight made Daenerys' gut wrench. The kind woman smiled back and walked over to grab her other hand.

A group of them walked forward, saying their final farewells to their old friends. Daenerys cradled Jorah’s head one last time, placing a soft kiss to his forehead as she wept. _ Farewell, my loyal bear. _

Missandei handed her a torch so that she may light the pyre. She held it for a while, hesitant to see her friend turn to ash. When she turned to the side, Jon and the others had already lit their sections. Daenerys followed.

The others retreated, afraid of the heat of the flames. Daenerys stood vigil as Jorah’s body became engulfed in flames, his armour beginning to blacken and skin flaking off his bones. Daenerys did not cry, the warmth of the flames near her skin burning them away. _ Let the others think me mad_, she thought. She would not abandon him to burn alone.

When Jorah’s face disappeared in the flames, Daenerys finally turned and returned to the crowd. Jon gave her a sad smile, before stepping out to give a speech to the crowd.

“We’re here to say goodbye to our brothers and sisters. To our fathers and mothers. To our friends.” Jon began, his back to the flaming bodies behind him. “Our fellow men and women who set aside their differences to fight together and die together so that others might live. Everyone in this world owes them a debt that can never be repaid. It is our duty and our honour to keep them alive in memory. For those who come after us and those come after them, for as long as men draw breath. They were the shields who guarded the realms of men, and we shall never see their like again.”

Daenerys thought he sounded like a king.

To her side, Jaime Lannister sobbed openly at the sight of the burning bodies, his gaze locked on where Brienne of Tarth had been laid to rest. The man looked as if he were about to fall to his knees, kept upright only by his pride. 

The crowd dispersed, the fire continuing to rage. Daenerys stayed where she was and watched the flame and smoke spill into the air. She had been here once before, full of grief with a pyre before her. This time, it was Jorah she was burning, but more men and women stood beside her to share her pain. Tyrion approached her, his eyes transfixed on the pyre as well.

“We should prepare.” He said.

Prepare? It had not even been a day since the battle, a day since Jorah died, a day since her advisors and armies were injured. They could wait for a few more.

She did not look at him. “We can wait.”

“Yes, but not for long, King’s Landi-”

“We. Will. Wait.” It was she who ordered him, not the other way around. “Have some respect, Tyrion. Perhaps you should check on your brother.” She indicated to the Kingslayer, who was stumbling away from the pyre and back into the castle. 

Tyrion sighed and walked away. From the corner of her eye, she could see Varys had narrowed his eyes at her words. She ran out of patience then, storming away from her advisors. 

_ I am a Queen, yes, but please, let me be a woman_. _ Just for today. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jorah's death was perhaps the only one that made some sense in the show, and its effect on Dany really should have hit home. It's the reason I've kept it.
> 
> This is a horrible war they've just fought, far worse than any of them had ever seen. Who's going to come out of that fine? Dany, Jon, Arya - they're all gonna be scarred by what they've seen. It's not just, whoop battle done, let's move on, and it's why I picked and was inspired by Dany's book quote I've placed at the top of the chapter. They are all so young to have seen such horror - weary of the things they have experienced at such a young age - at some point, you don't want to be fighting forever.


	20. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “People work together when it suits them. They’re loyal when it suits them. They love each other when it suits them. And they kill each other when it suits them.”

Sansa sat at the high table, resting her chin on her hand. Before her, a huge feast was underway to celebrate their victory against the dead not two days ago. Celebration, however, may have been too strong a word. The men and women that sat around the room were not laughing and smiling, but solemnly drinking from their cups as they chatted with those around them who had survived. Sansa too, looked miserable, mourning the destruction of her home and the deaths of noble warriors like Brienne.

To her right, Arya sat with her hands on another table, staring forward absently at nothing. When Tyrion attempted to speak with her, she did not even acknowledge him, too focused on the stone floor in front of her. Jon and the Dragon Queen sat to her other side, speaking quietly to each other, but looking no happier.

_ Plotting, no doubt_, Sansa thought.

The war with the dead was over, and now the Dragon Queen would drag them kicking and screaming into a new one. To her credit, the woman had yet to call a war council to discuss preparations, but Sansa felt in her bones that it would only be a matter of time. A matter of time before Daenerys formerly took the North from her, from the Starks. 

_ If Jon were clever_, she pondered, _ he would marry her and take her crown_. The people always preferred their crowns on men, she knew that well. In this very room, the Lords of the North had named Jon their king, a bastard, and they continued to do so despite the fact three trueborn Starks now graced Winterfell’s cold halls. It had done nothing but irritate her.

Still, as the night wore on and the crowd drank deeper into their cups, the mood lifted. They mourned, yes, but were sufficiently distracted to laugh and joke with those by their side. Even Tormund, his arm wrapped in a sling from where he had lost a large portion of his sword hand, was dancing and drinking and telling wild stories to the table.

It was only when Gendry, Arya’s blacksmith boy, walked over that anything of note truly happened.

“Gendry Waters,” Daenerys called out to him, sitting upright in her chair. She looked cleaner than she did yesterday, though the solemn look on her face remained the same. Sansa thought it was weak.

Gendry stopped dead in his tracks, clearly on his way to sit with Arya. The rest of the room fell silent as well, eager to hear what the Targaryen Queen had to say to the Baratheon bastard.

“You fought bravely in the battle, Gendry. I commend you for that.” She began. Gendry nodded, honoured by the Queen’s praise. Sansa scoffed, as quietly as she could. “I heard you even protected the good Lady Arya in the fighting. You have served Lord Snow and I well these past few months, but what do you plan to do next?”

Gendry stammered, unsure of how to answer. He was of no proper noble birth, a bastard with no stately skills. Sansa did not have high hopes for him.

“I think you should be the Lord of Storm’s End.” Daenerys declared.

Sansa whizzed her head around. Gendry? Lord of Storm’s End? Was she mad? The boy looked shocked, Arya as well, but the Dragon Queen merely continued to smile at him.

“Your Grace, I-I’m not a Baratheon. Not technically.” Gendry said.

“Then I will make it technically.” She replied quickly. “House Baratheon perished with Stannis, and while I abhor the House for its crimes against my own, it would be a shame to see another Great House wiped from the map in this war.”

The woman was referring to the Tyrells, the old crone Olenna forming part of her Queen’s council once upon a time. Sansa knew she was lying, _ she does not care for who she burns, as long as she gets the throne, and the North with it. _

“Your Grace, I agree. I gladly accept.” Gendry replied, beaming. He was Gendry Baratheon now. The crowd cheered at his response, forgetting they had fought House Baratheon not even some years ago. Arya seemed to be smiling and mouthed something intelligible to Gendry before rising from her seat and leaving.

But Sansa remembered. Sansa was seething. _So, the Dragon Queen was to buy their love, grant them gifts and lands and titles to make them love her_. She had helped them at Winterfell, yes, and a part of Sansa was grateful for that protection, but the silver-haired woman meant to steal the men of Winterfell away for them to die in her war in the South.

Sansa stared the woman down, but Daenerys ignored her. Jon, however, spotted her, his jaw clenched and his gaze furious when he saw Sansa’s icy stare. He stood, and walked to stand over where Sansa was seated.

“Why don’t you go mingle with the rest of the guests, Sansa.” He said quietly.

Sansa scoffed, insulted. She would not mingle with the likes of Lannisters and foreigners. She continued to sip from her drink, ignoring her brother.

He took the drink from her as she placed it back down on the wooden table, his face stern. Sansa’s eyes widened at his boldness. _ Ten years ago, Mother would have had him slapped for such a misdemeanour. _

“The oak table is for the highest Lords of Westeros.” He declared, quiet only for her dignity. 

Sansa looked up at him, furious, her nostrils flaring. She stood, creating a loud clang as she roughly moved the chair across the stone. They stood eye to eye then, and she knew everyone could see. Behind Jon, she could see Tyrion gazing at her warily, as if warning her to take the high road. He was right, and she knew it.

Sansa walked from the table slowly and with poise as she fled into the crowd resuming their festivities.

_ Is there anyone loyal to me now? Anyone I can trust? Brienne is gone, the Lords cheered on the Dragon Queen, and Arya had ignored her all evening. Am I even safe in my own home? _

Sansa walked past the corner where Lord Glover and a few other men sat. They were not as cheery as the rest of the hall, sipping their drinks in silence as they observed the room.

“Lady Sansa,” They nodded as she walked by. _ Good, some respect is in order_. She acknowledged them with a smile. _ I will make them love me too, Dragon Queen. _

Sansa kept walking, however, making her way to sit with her younger brother. He sat facing one of the many fires of the hall, accompanied by the little boy she had rescued in the crypts.

“Dragons are nice. But they shoot fire at stuff when they’re angry.” The little boy said. Why he was in the room, she did not know. _ Surely the boy has a father_, she thought. 

“Very true, little Sam. Only Sam. Dragons are beautiful in the sky. But when they crash to the ground? Men tremble.” Bran replied. His face betrayed little emotion, but Sansa had become used to it. Her brother glanced at her quickly as she stood behind the little boy.

“What does tremble mean?” The boy struggled to say it as he asked the question.

“Afraid. Scared. Men do it sometimes before they die.” Bran answered.

“Like mama and papa?” The boy asked sweetly. Bran nodded. Sansa’s eyes widened at the sight - the boy had lost both his parents the other night. The thought made Sansa’s heart break. The little boy scurried off, disappearing into the crowd behind them.

“Sansa,” Bran said, his voice monotone. She did not like the way he spoke now, all life gone from him. It was almost as if he were a ghost.

At the other end of the hall, the crowd cheered Daenerys and Jon as they toasted the heroes of Winterfell. Sansa’s nose turned up in disgust at the sight of their loved up smiles. _ Jon killed the Night King, not you_. _ They shouldn’t cheer for you. _

“Dragons prefer cheers to bells,” Bran declared.

Sansa looked back to him, confused. “What?”

“You are angry at Daenerys Targaryen. Why?” He ignored her question, instead asking his own. She sat in the seat the boy had occupied, turning to face the warmth of the fireplace.

“She doesn’t belong here,” Sansa replied. When Bran said nothing, she continued. “Just because she brought her armies doesn’t mean we should help her. Her dragons meant nothing in the crypts!”

Bran looked her up and down as if assessing her. “It was Unsullied and Dothraki outside the walls. Without Daenerys Targaryen, the Night King would not have been thrown from his dragon.”

“A dragon which she gave him!” Sansa raised her voice but covered her mouth when a few of the lords and soldiers behind her turned to investigate. Sansa knew it wasn’t her fault, she did not hand the beast over, she was just angry. Angry that the lords cheered her on, forgetting the suffering they had endured since the Mad King. Sansa didn’t like her not because she thought she was her father’s daughter, but because she _didn’t know _if she was.

“Varys doesn’t like her very much. He preferred controlling Robert.” Bran said. _ Well of course he did_, she thought, Robert Baratheon was a drunk who did not care to rule his kingdom. “He likes Jon, though.”

Jon _was _easily manipulated. No doubt Daenerys had exploited that. But Varys could do nothing with Jon. Wrong family name. No family name. Jon would be better off marrying her so that the North could be ruled by a Northerner. It would make them more powerful, and with power, came security.

Bran sighed, turning his head to look at the fire as well. “Knowledge is power in this world… that’s why they said don’t tell Sansa.”

_ What?! _

Sansa stood from her seat violently, eyes wide in shock. Sansa had made it her job to know everything that happened in these walls, and she would know this as well. Bran looked to the doorway behind the main table where Arya had left not ten minutes ago. Sansa would wring her neck, she decided. The older Stark girl thought everything would be shared between them, all of the Starks a united front against the Targaryens and the Lannisters. But here she was, the lone wolf.

Bran said nothing as Sansa angrily stomped through the rows of the hall, slamming open the door that would lead her to Westeros’ biggest, and most dangerous, secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still not meant to be an anti-Sansa fic, I guess you could just say it's not Sansa friendly for the time being. 
> 
> Sansa cares about one thing: home, and being safe in that home. Is a lot of it from what littlefinger taught her? Yes. But I think it's really important we don't just throw her onto the pile of being a massive bitch. You can be a bitch for a reason, whether their reason is rational/reasonable or not. 
> 
> (Sorry if you guys get any notifications about me editing chapters, I've noticed some tense issues in the first couple chapters and I'm slowly going through them so it's consistent!)


	21. Arya III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Knowledge could be more valuable than gold, more deadly than a dagger.”

Arya walked through the dark corridors of Winterfell, her hands clasped behind her back. She gazed around, admiring the stone and torches which formed the narrow walls. This part of the castle had been largely untouched, with the upper levels and the outer keep enduring the most damage from the dead. Arya was glad for it.

She only stopped her amble when she heard the heavy footsteps of Gendry behind her.

“Lord Baratheon,” Arya almost giggled, giving a small and not at all accurate curtsy as he got closer to her. He rolled his eyes, his smile wide.

“Lady Stark,” Gendry replied. Two could play this game. She smirked as her glare intensified, letting him off just this once. “Thought you weren’t one for lords and ladies?”

A lot of them were annoying. Self-serving. Some outright cruel. But she could not deny that it was her own pack she claimed to hate. “I am the daughter of a Great House, I tolerate the politics at best.”

“Honestly? I’m not one for politics either. I’m probably going to need some help.” He chuckled.

“Well, I most certainly cannot help you with that!” Arya joked, taking a step closer to him. _ Leave the politics to Jon and Sansa_, she thought.

“You’re better suited to war, it seems.” It was intended as a compliment, perhaps a comparison to Brienne, who had served her family with honour, but it hit Arya in the gut, reminding her of the battle they had just endured.

“Am I?” Arya said. Her voice was sadder, quieter, unsure of herself. You can’t make a kill list in a battle. You can’t make a kill list for soldiers with no names.

Gendry’s smile dropped, understanding dawning on his face. They had discussed it a little bit before the battle, how she had murdered the Freys. How satisfying it felt in the moment. Right now though, it felt empty. Avenger of the Red Wedding, but it did not bring back Robb or her mother. Jon had retaken Winterfell from the Boltons, yet the scars remained.

“When I looked around in that battle… when I saw the carnage that was happening, happening to _my home_, I wanted to cry and scream. I wanted the dead to go away, as if shouting at them would make them leave.” Arya’s eyes welled, the image of the battle burned in her mind. She remembered seeing all those people dead on the ground. Skin torn. Blood pouring. Arya had seen death before, gruesome deaths, but it had never hit her like this.

Gendry stepped closer to her, reaching out as if to touch her, but did not. He said nothing, his eyes looking at her in understanding, begging her to continue. She did not wish to look him in the eye, so avoided his gaze as he entered her personal space.

“It looked so horrible, Gendry. I used to play in that courtyard, I used to fight and dance and joke with my family. Father would look at us as the boys practised their archery from his balcony and the dead tore it down!” Arya’s voice rose, becoming more frantic and afraid. She had always wanted to be strong, but she couldn’t. Not today.

“It’s alright. Your family is still here.” Gendry said, rubbing a hand on her shoulder in comfort.

“We all used to love and trust one another. Nothing was secret. Nothing was wrong. We’ve all grown. We’re all gone.” Arya cried. 

She missed it, missed home. She was in the place, physically, but the people were wrong. Targaryens and Lannisters, Jon in authority, Sansa on the sidelines, Bran not the same. Arya’s young mind had never seen it that way. She had seen Starks, and love, and trust.

When the dead had ripped down that balcony, when the corpses had been strewn across the yard, Arya Stark’s ideal of Winterfell had been lost to her. House Stark had died with Robb, and Winterfell with the battle with the dead. Arya had always wanted to be home, she had thought. But no, she had wanted everything to go back to as it was.

Tears streamed down her face, prompting Gendry to pull her into a hug. He placed his hand on her head and stroked, messing up her hair. She found she did not care. She hugged him back, letting her snot and tears bleed onto his clothes. He would never be the Lord of Storm’s End to her, only Gendry. 

Arya began to calm as she breathed deeply and slowly. A part of her was embarrassed by her outburst - the other, glad that someone had been there to listen. Gendry stepped back from her, his eyes wide and alert. He glanced behind her shoulder, prompting Arya to turn and investigate.

Sansa stood in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her, her face giving nothing away.

“Lord Baratheon, would you leave us please?” Sansa said. A polite smile was on her face, but her eyes were filled with unbridled rage.

Gendry nodded, looked to Arya, and left, brushing his shoulder with Sansa as he passed her by. Arya wiped her face as discreetly as she could, hoping Sansa would not notice her tears.

“Well, you look annoyed, what’s the Queen done now?” Arya joked, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Sansa, however, was having none of it and stepped forward with an icy stare.

“Arya, I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to answer it,” Sansa said, her voice low and stern. Arya looked up at her sister, the redhead standing several inches above her. “Don’t. Tell. Sansa… what?”

Arya’s eyes widened, shocked that Sansa had uncovered their secrecy. Arya looked around, flustering, though attempted to hide it as hard as she could.

“Uh… don’t tell Sansa… the lemon cakes in the kitchen had come out bad. Yes. That was it.” Arya had lied before, plenty of times in her life. But the mental exhaustion of her conversation with Gendry, and the guilt she felt over the battle, had resulted in Arya unable to lie to save her life. She was tired.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed. Plots and lies were for Sansa, Arya preferred her blades. Not that they would help her here. When Arya attempted to dash around her elder sister, Sansa grabbed her arm, her grip like a vice. She headed for the nearest door and dragged her inside. She practically threw her in, locking the door behind her with the key and hiding it inside her long black dress.

Arya was annoyed, her face like thunder. _ How dare she touch me? She’s not the bloody Queen! _ Arya thought. Sansa slid back into her cool, even mask, walking gracefully to the large desk in the centre of the room. Arya attempted the door handle, hoping that her sister had failed to lock it properly. She had.

The room was dark, save for a few candles dotted around the room. A large window was open at the other side, allowing the bitter midnight air to filter through into the study.

“Neither of us leave this room until you tell me,” Sansa said. As she sat in the large, ornate chair, Arya thought she looked like their mother. She sat with both her hands on the arms, her back straight against the chair, and stared at Arya in complete silence.

“You’re mad,” Arya spat out when the air became too tense. “Not everything in the world needs to be known by you!”

“If it pertains to my family it does! I cannot protect Winterfell if there are secrets kept from me.” Sansa remained as calm as she could, her voice even. Cold.

“Protect Winterfell? We did that not two nights ago! A secret will not cause Winterfell to collapse into the dirt!” Arya shouted. She had blown it now, Sansa knew there was a secret to be had. 

“I don’t mean the actual bloody building, Arya. The people. Our house. Our _ home _.” Sansa said. “If there is a threat to our family, why would you keep it to yourself? I am trying to protect our family!”

“So am I!” Arya yelled.

Arya’s stare intensified, furious at the insinuation she did not care for House Stark as Sansa did. She tightened her lips, pressing them into a fine line. She would say nothing. Sansa did not break their eye contact, her face blank. They would be here a while.

Arya moved over to the small oak chairs positioned beside the empty fire and sat down. She slumped down in the chair, her back to Sansa. She could fling herself from the window, if she were brave enough, she had done far greater falls before. But what would happen then? Sansa would tear down the entire castle to discover what she did not know. Arya pondered her options.

Behind her, she heard the uncomfortable scrape of a chair across the stone. Sansa sat down in the chair next to her, her posture far more poised and regal than Arya's was.

“Arya… sister… we’ve been here before. We kept things from each other, and Littlefinger used it against us. We swore we would never let anything rip us apart again, remember?” Sansa’s voice was softer, quieter. Arya was unused to it. 

“What if the truth rips us apart?” Arya murmured. She had been away from Sansa so many years, long enough to be unsure of how she would react. Sansa could use it as blackmail against Jon or Daenerys, or she could keep it quiet. Arya did not truly know whether Sansa wanted Winterfell, the power and the castle, or if she wanted _home_.

“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. That’s what father always said.” Sansa said quietly.

Arya closed her eyes, imagining him. She missed him. Missed his voice, and his smile, and the way he would pat her head and stroke her hair. Father had always been so right, always stopped the arguments and mended the bonds. Arya kept quiet still, for fear she would cry at the talk of their lost father. Sansa reached over and placed her hand on Arya’s, a sad smile on her face. A genuine one. She did not recoil from her sister’s touch.

A part of her had missed Sansa, as annoying as she was. They were still blood. She did not wish to see Sansa’s head on a pike or her turned to ash because of this. Alas, if she did, Arya would know Sansa’s plea to protect her family was a lie. But if she did not speak, Sansa would never trust her again. 

What if she went investigating? Then they would never know if she knew or not. What if Tyrion and Varys found out? The Northern lords?

Arya thought her head would explode. Her heart hurt, in pain for being in control of this choice. Should she say nothing, Sansa would be a storm, she thought, a far greater threat scorned than trusted. They could control her, Arya hoped. They were a family, they could get through this, just as father always did.

Arya sighed, her back straightening. _ Please forgive me_, _ Jon, we’ll work it out. _

“Father isn’t Jon’s father. Rhaegar Targaryen is.” She whispered.

Sansa inhaled sharply, but her hand did not move from Arya’s. When Arya glanced to her, her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly agape. _Not what you were expecting, sister?_

“What is the proof? Surely that would still make him a bastard?” Sansa asked.

“Bran. He saw it… or something. Sam had some records on a marriage between Rhaegar and our aunt Lyanna.” Arya said.

Sansa’s eyebrows furrowed, her head turning to look at the floor in deep concentration. Arya realised then, that was not really proof at all. A boy who claimed to see visions and the memory of a dead man? Arya felt slightly relieved. Sansa could do nothing with it, she hoped desperately.

After a few moments had passed, Sansa stood and slowly walked to the old wooden door. She unlocked it and held it open for Arya to leave. Arya rose slowly and glided over to her escape. She stopped when she came face to face with her Sansa, her face solemn.

“He’s still our family. Remember that.” Arya said sternly and fled the room. She desperately hoped she would.

When Arya was a mere few steps down the hall, tears beginning to form in her eyes, Sansa slammed the oak door shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya Stark is a girl who has returned home to find it full of strangers wearing familiar faces. She has endured hardships and pain and grief, up to and including the Battle of Winterfell. I hope that I've gotten across Arya's reasoning for telling Sansa. Arya doesn't want to play the game, she wants everyone to get along, for their family to act as a family again. Yet, Arya knows that this is a secret that cannot stay hidden forever - better it spills in a controlled way than explode and burn them all.  
Be annoyed at Arya, I know I would be, but I hope it's a more understandable situation than Sansa telling Tyrion because 'she doesn't like Dany'.
> 
> Personally, Arya cares about her family. A lot. Was the "she's not one of us" extremely OOC in the show? Absolutely. But Arya's desire to rebuild her family, 'the pack', as far fetched and idealistic it may be, strikes me as an important part of her character. A girl cannot be a child soldier forever.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed x


	22. Jon IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's no shame in fear, my father told me, what matters is how we face it."

Jon had been up all night, constantly waking from nightmares. The sun had just appeared over the horizon, the bustle of the castle slowly increasing as the day began. Jon had decided to just stay awake, staring into the fire with the company of Ghost. He had wished that Dany had joined him in her chambers, but she had been nowhere near as drunk as him, and so had retired early alongside Missandei.

Ghost was fast asleep on the floor, his white fur spread out across the oak planks like snow.  _ Lucky bastard _ , Jon thought. So, Jon continued to lay across his armchair, admiring the flicker of the light raging in the fireplace.

Someone opened the door, quietly and slowly. Ghost’s eyes shot open, but almost as quickly closed again as he lay back down.

“Jon?” Arya whispered.

Jon turned in his chair, surprised to see Arya at the time of the morning. Arya flashed him a quick smile, but her eyes were red and sore. She clearly had not slept any better than him.

“Arya, what are you doing here? Are you alright?” Jon asked.

She stood near the door, holding her hands and twisting them around anxiously.

“Jon, I told Sansa.” She whispered. He looked at her blankly, astonished that she had done such a thing. Then, his rage bubbled and exploded all at once.

“Arya! Do you understand how much danger you’ve put us in? Not even us, but Daenerys!” Jon bellowed, his face red. “There was a reason I said don’t tell Sansa!”

“I know! I know what I’ve done, and I’m so sorry! I hate myself for it! She had me locked in a room, and we all said we shouldn’t keep stuff from each other and I-, I don’t know. She knew she didn’t know something, I thought it would be smarter to tell her.” Arya said quickly. “I don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

“I didn’t ask you to decide what would be smarter! I asked you to keep your mouth shut!”

Jon stood and walked to his sister. He was mad at her, mad that she had betrayed his trust. His hands were bunched into fists, his jaw clenched. But the sight of her, anxious and childlike, made Jon pull her into a hug instead.

“I’m angry, Arya. I expected better from you.” Jon whispered.

“I know. I’m so sorry.” She sounded as if she were about to cry.

Jon sighed. Arya had a point. At least now, they knew that she was aware. It was not as secret as he had wanted, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Jon felt dejected, knowing he would have to tell Daenerys. The exposure of this secret didn’t threaten him anyway near as much as it threatened the woman he loved.

“I don’t forgive you, yet, but I understand. There is little we can do about it now.” Jon’s face was sullen, his eyes dropped to the ground in hurt. Arya squeezed back tighter. She would make it up to him, he knew that. He had some faith in his little sister still.

Arya pulled back from the hug and explained her thoughts so quickly that Jon could barely keep up. “I couldn’t really gauge her reaction, she just seemed shocked more than anything. But surely with Sam gone, there’s no one that’s not a Stark to back her up? We’d just look like we’re making it up for a power grab!” 

“That’s true, but Sam only proved that I was trueborn. Even if I was a Targaryen bastard, some people would still prefer that to Daenerys.” Jon said. Arya’s expression fell, and her eyes grew sombre.

“Is she going to be mad at me?” Arya asked, quietly. Jon nodded, slowly but surely. He’d tell Daenerys himself, he decided. Daenerys would not burn her for this transgression, but it sure was going to make it harder for her to have any faith in the North. Jon sighed, his heart heavy with the confusion and uncertainty this would bring.

Tyrion knocked quickly on the doorframe.

Arya and Jon sprang apart, alarmed at the dwarf’s sudden entrance. The man’s face was blank and absent, hopefully unaware of the conversation that had just occurred in the room. Tyrion waltzed in, ignoring their fright, papers in his hand.

“Lord Snow, Lady Stark. Good Morning!” Tyrion beamed. The man was far too bright and cheery for this time in the morning. “I have something I would like to discuss with you, Jon.”

Arya, however, did not leave. Instead, she plonked herself on the ground next to Ghost and stroked him. Tyrion kept looking at her, but sighed and gave up.

“As we all know, the battle with the dead has been won, thanks to you Jon. However, we must turn our attention to the war with Cersei now. That will require resources.” Tyrion rambled. Jon stayed standing, crossing his arms at the dwarf’s words. “Our Queen is very lovely, and also very unmarried. Securing her a husband will grant not only resources but an alliance with a kingdom, should he be of the right family name.”

Jon was stunned. He could not lie, he had contemplated asking Dany for her hand a thousand times, when he first met her and all the way to just this last evening. He was a trueborn Targaryen, yes, but to the world, he was a bastard. A bastard is not fit consort for a queen. He wanted to be at her side all the same.

“I’ve been having correspondence with the head of House Yronwood of Dorne-”

“What?” Jon asked bluntly.

Tyrion ignored his interruption with a sigh and continued. “House Yronwood is now the most powerful family in Dorne, and a marriage between Lord Ander’s son Cletus and her would be most beneficial. We could install them as the new Princes of Dorne, thus securing Dorne for House Targaryen once again!”

Both Jon and Arya looked at him then. Tyrion looked smug, impressed with his clever plan. Jon did not know who this Cletus Yronwood was, but he would have his head before he became any husband of Daenerys.

“No,” Jon replied.

“No? I was informing you, Lord Snow, not asking your permission.” Tyrion said.

“Dorne has already pledged it’s loyalty to House Targaryen, the Prince of Dorne can be installed without a marriage. It’s the North you should be securing.” Jon’s voice was harsh, furious at the imp’s insinuation that she could not choose for herself.

“Queen Daenerys had always made it clear to me she may need to enter a political marriage, and a marriage would do well to control some of her habits.” Tyrion’s voice was shaky and uneven under Jon’s cruel gaze. Arya’s gaze was no less icy, having now stopped her affections on the direwolf.

Jon’s ire grew at the dwarf’s words. Daenerys did not need to be  _ controlled _ . The man sounded like Varys. Daenerys needed someone who would not stab her in the back when it suited him.

“Then I will be the political marriage. The North is not secure just because I bent the knee,  _ Lord Tyrion _ .” Jon said, his voice bitter as it spit out the man’s title.

“The Northerners wish for a King named Stark. You will be a consort and a Snow.” Tyrion glared.

“They’ve named me King before, they will simply do it again.” Jon declared, his arms crossed. Behind him, Arya nodded firmly. Tyrion looked between them both, his lips pursing as he contemplated his response.

“I will speak to the Queen, then,” Tyrion said quietly, slowly moving back to make his escape.

“No. I will.” Jon said. He would marry her to secure her crown, but he would marry her because he loved her.

Jon stormed out the door, Arya and Ghost following close behind, leaving Tyrion flustered and confused inside the room at Jon Snow’s newfound fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're about to get a triple whammy today because my keyboard has been on fire typing this - I finished all my uni work for the year yesterday, so now I can devote my full lockdown attention to this bad boy.
> 
> Next chapter will be up shortly after I've edited bits.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed x


	23. Daenerys VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No good has ever come from these dreams of dragons"

Daenerys was dreaming.

She walked through a field with blades of summer grass so high it almost looked like mountains next to her small frame. Night had descended upon the field, illuminating her hair so that it almost looked like moonlight. The grass was swaying gently in the breeze, her hands grazing the strands as she wandered. Not far in front, her silver stallion trotted into the rising sun, leading the way for her.

In the distance, she heard a woman speak. The woman was so far away, her voice as soft as the wind, that Daenerys could not make out what she had said, only that it was in Dothraki. The soft chimes of bells followed her like a shadow as she walked, the blades of grass growing taller, rising inch by inch as Daenerys’ small feet stepped on the dry earth.

Daenerys could no longer see, the grass having grown so thick and dark that only her pale hands were within sight. The grass spoke to her as it swayed, more violently this time, whispers of dead men breaking through the blades.

_“No, Dany! Dany, tell them, make them! You can’t! Dany please!”_ The desperate voice of her brother rang out. Daenerys ran towards it, frantically clawing through the ever-growing grass.

When Dany finally saw light flicker through the fine edges of the grass, she ran faster, bulleting out of the wilderness and into a dark stone castle. She did not recognise it, it was not Dragonstone, or Winterfell, nor any place in Essos.

The corridors were silent, save for a man sobbing quietly in the distance. Dany was afraid, the cold and bitter air of the castle making her cross her arms instinctively. It was then she noticed she was clad in her blue dress, the one she had worn as she had sacked and conquered Slaver’s Bay. 

A little girl ran past, her hair long and wavy and made of silver-gold. In her hand was a wooden sword which was burned black from flame. She was laughing, giggling, as children do, and Daenerys followed the sweet sound of her joy gladly.

She led her to a garden, one filled with beautiful flowers - roses and tulips, blue and red and white. The sun was shining, and the sky was a bright blue, interrupted only by the sight of white willow trees and red towers. Daenerys thought it was beautiful. Calm. A sweet dream that she could have stayed in for a thousand years, if only it would let her. The little girl continued to play on the brick walls, dancing between the shrubbery and the flower beds with glee. Daenerys laughed happily at the sight of it.

When the girl passed a large oak tree, she disappeared from Dany’s sight. She was alone in the garden, and the thought made her as sad and afraid as she had been in the grass.

She was tapped on the shoulder. Daenerys turned to find Quaithe, the masked woman from Qarth.

“Daenerys Stormborn. Mother of Dragons, daughter of death, slayer of lies, bride of fire.” The woman whispered. Dany had heard it before. “Treason lies in the heart of all men. Trust nothing but fire and blood.”

Daenerys stood there, a few feet away from the woman clad in red, confused. All around her, the willowy trees slowly dripped liquid red leaves, blood pooling on the tiled paths below. The towers which surrounded the gardens looked as if they were burning, smoke billowing to blacken the sky. Her idyllic garden slowly turned into a nightmare.

“To reforge things anew, first you must melt it down.” She continued.

“Quaithe, I don’t understand.” Daenerys pleaded, desperate for an explanation.

The woman ignored her. “The coin will land, Dragon Queen.” The sky flashed a sickly green, and Dany swore she heard the wail of a dragon in the sky.

She awakened with a scream.

Daenerys was sweating as she sprang upright from her bed, her breathing fast and hard. She looked about the room, her mind adjusting to the cold and dark walls of Winterfell. 

_ What did she mean? Beware who? Trust who? _ She wondered. The whole thing made Dany drown with worry. She had not seen Quaithe in years, even in her dreams. She did not understand her then, and she did not understand her now.

Daenerys rose from her large bed to dress herself, having dismissed Missandei the night before so that she may spend time with Grey Worm. She was glad they were happy, Grey Worm supportive of her friend as she worked through her newfound partial blindness. Dany felt horrible guilt over her injury. She had sent her down to the crypts to be safe, and she had returned covered in blood.

Everything just felt wrong. Despite the cheers of the lords and ladies last night, Daenerys could help but feel that she was alone, that people were conspiring against her. She could not seek the advice of her old bear, and few were there to help her remind herself that she was not her father, that she should not be so paranoid. But, she knew she would be a fool to think that the North would willingly bow to her after just one battle. A girl could only dream of such tales.

She fastened her dark grey dress, and braided her hair quickly into a simple Dothraki style, before moving to reach for the door. Instead, the handle turned before she could place her hand on it. Jon walked in, without so much as a knock, his face hard and his eyes full of fire.

“Good morning,” Jon said tensely.

“What’s wrong?” Daenerys replied. She knew that look, she knew that few things could cause it.

“Sansa knows.” He said bluntly. “Arya told her.”

Daenerys stayed where she was, her hands clenching and unclenching as she imagined every possibility of this terrible news.

“I’m sorry, Dany. Arya was backed into a corner, I’m angry at her too.” Jon moved closer to her, his hand reaching out to try and grab hers. She turned and walked to the window before he could.

Outside, the castle had become busy, her room giving a perfect view of the yard below. All the people, highborn and low, walked around with a purpose. A goal in mind. A part to play. It seemed Arya and Sansa would not play theirs.

She kept her back to Jon as she spoke. “If she does anything, Jon…”

“She won't-” He replied.

“You don’t know that!” Daenerys turned on her heel quickly, her eyes wide in anger and fear. Sansa could do anything with that knowledge. It could be enough to turn the Northerners, enough to turn her own advisors. It was not that the throne could be stolen from her, but that her life could be.

Jon walked slowly to stand beside her, his eyes sombre. “I know I don’t. We just need a little faith.”

Faith? The only person she should have faith in was herself, _ in fire and blood_, Quaithe had said so in her dream.

“My family have always stuck together. Protected each other when we could. I’m asking you to have faith in me, as I muster as much faith as I can in them.” Jon said softly. Daenerys did not know what to say. “Sansa will play a game, and we’re in that game whether we like it or not. We need to play it better.”

He was right, of course. She could not run from the truth, no matter how much she wanted to. She looked up at him then and gave him a small smile in agreement. She sighed. Already, she did not wish to face the day ahead.

“Which is why I have a question to ask…” Jon said. Her brows furrowed, and her eyes narrowed. “... and I do not ask this question in the name of the game, but because I love you. I wish to stay by your side, from this day… until the end of my days.”

Daenerys’ eyes widened in realisation.

“Jon, I-” She began.

“-I’m not finished! Dany… Daenerys Stormborn, breaker of chains, mother to dragons, you are quite possibly the most amazing woman I have ever met. Your heart is so kind, yet at the same time so unafraid, so strong. At times it even makes me jealous… but that’s not the point. Dany, you will rule these blasted kingdoms, I feel it in my bones.” His voice was firm, his faith in her so unwavering that Dany’s heart filled with emotion. He took her hands in his, grasping them tightly as the next words tumbled from his lips. “I would like to know whether you would take me as your husband?”

Daenerys laughed, a sweet and cheerful one, as her eyes brimmed with tears of love and joy. She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and feathering kisses all over his face. After Jon got over his initial shock, he laughed as well.

Their lips collided, and the kiss was passionate and strong. Daenerys had believed she had felt love before, but no feeling compared to this just now. Her kin, her fellow dragon, had come to find her in the midst of war and loved her. Not because she was a Queen, not because she was a prize to be had, but because he loved _her_.

Daenerys would be a Queen, but first, she would be a wife. She could give him no children, but she would give him the world if she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're telling me book!dany has several prophetic dreams and visions of Quaithe, and in the show, she sees Quaithe ONCE, and then only sees a few of her House of the Undying visions? Consider that rectified. Because I do like to tease lol.
> 
> *me, as I blast truth through my headphones as I write this* #jonerysrights


	24. Theon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are grown so very great now, yet the higher a man climbs the farther he has to fall."

Theon had spent the entire journey north locked in his cabin. When he had arrived back at his ship, the men did not look at him as a coward, but as a failure. Theon had fled to his room before Daris could say a thing.

In fact, Daris had not said a word of worth to him the entire journey, having only asked how much farther as they approached Winterfell. That was Theon’s plan now. Daenerys was at Winterfell, as were the Starks. If he could not find Yara alone, then he would do it with others. Daris had not needed to come, but the man, loyal as ever, disembarked the ship by his side anyway.

Now here they were, face to face with the steel grey walls of Winterfell - a place Theon had not returned to since his time as Reek.

When Theon and Daris entered the gates, the courtyard looked dreary. It had taken heavy damage in the battle, and the people who walked it now bore scars and injuries sustained from the dead. Theon had not been here, and his guilt over it ravaged him. He had been making foolish plans to rescue his sisters while the Starks bled for the realm. You could even say he was embarrassed.

Theon had done much to upset the Starks, enough to brandish him a traitor, an oathbreaker. The walls of Winterfell should not welcome him home, he believed, for it was a home he had taken for granted and dragged into the dirt.

It was then Theon began to worry, and his hands began to shake. The two men walked further into the cold castle, seeking out a Stark. Theon thought that the great hall would be his best bet, seeing as the lords and ladies of the North were filling out of there at that moment. They were like a sea, uncaring and drowning the rocks in their way. Theon was bashed into several times. He did not know whether the men he had once betrayed even recognised him.

When they entered Winterfell’s Great Hall, a small group stood around the end table. They murmured quietly to each other, but Theon could tell the atmosphere around the table was tense.

“Excuse me, your Grace?” Theon said quietly.

Daenerys turned to him immediately, a small smile on her face that quickly turned to concern. Theon had informed the Dragon Queen that he would not return until he had recovered his sister.

“I’m surprised to see you in Winterfell, Theon. What news of Yara?” Daenerys asked.

Theon glanced briefly to Daris, who stood beside him silently. The man did not fear the judgement of the Starks like Theon did.

“We made an attempt to rescue her at Lordsport, your Grace, but we were… unsuccessful. I am unsure of her fate.” Theon said, his voice wavering slightly. Daenerys’ brows furrowed, and with a simple nod of her head expressed her apologies and disappointment.

Theon glanced to the other end of the table to see Sansa standing there, a few feet away from the rest of the group, her hands clasped behind her back. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was wide with joy at seeing him. When he smiled back, she moved towards him to bring him into a soft hug.

Daenerys looked on confused. Jon seemed to be avoiding eye contact altogether, picking at his hands as he leaned on the oak table.

Theon pulled back and swallowed, ready to make his apology.

“I… I have done many things to House Stark, things that have resulted in nothing but pain for you all. I’ve never been more sorry for anything in my life. I’d like to speak with Bran too if he is here still. I’ve returned to assist Queen Daenerys, but I will serve the Starks as well, as I should have done from the start… if you’ll have me.” Theon said.

Jon nodded, quickly and tensely, and Theon realised that would be all he would get from Snow. Sansa pulled him into a hug again, and Theon could not lie and say he had not missed her. They had been together, as united as they could be, against Ramsay and his cruel ways. He doubted anyone else in this room understood her treatment under the Boltons as much as he did. Theon squeezed back, happy to be held.

“Jon, will you see to it that Theon and his friend have somewhere to rest?” Daenerys said quietly. Jon smiled at the Dragon Queen, standing up from the table to fulfil his Queen’s wishes.

The silver-haired woman glanced back and forth between Sansa and Theon, her eyes sad. His loyalty was to her, officially, but he would serve the Starks with all his heart, he had decided.

Jon moved past him, indicating for the men to follow. Theon looked to both women again, nodding his head in gratitude. They looked like black and white, Sansa beamed while Daenerys’ head dropped in thought. Theon did not know what to think of the sight.

He turned to follow Jon, Daris a few steps behind and sighed. Jon led them to some side rooms on the far end of the Keep, the corridor dark and cold, and pushed the door open.

“Here you are. Watch yourself, Greyjoy.” Jon said quickly.

“How so?” Daris asked.

“Winterfell isn’t what it used to be, that’s all I can warn,” Jon said before he turned on his heel and left, disappearing from sight as he fled around the corner.

The two men walked into the room. It was decent, two beds lined against the wall with a small candelabra in the middle. A servants room, perhaps? Daris collapsed onto the bed as if testing its mattress.

“What do you think he meant by that, Daris?” Theon asked, looking around the small room.

“I think it was loud and clear. Don’t be a fucking idiot like you were at Lordsport.” Daris replied, his eyes boring into the ceiling. Daris was still furious about the ordeal, it seemed. Theon couldn't blame him.

Theon sat down on the bed, picking at his fingers. He was anxious. Unsure of what den he had just walked into. Theon wanted to help the Starks, help Daenerys, and most importantly, help Yara.  Someone in this cold castle would be willing to help him, surely?

Theon sighed, collapsing onto the hard mattress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys, I'd written the last few chapters (they just needed to be edited) but got called at short notice to clear my university housing which has basically taken the whole week. Luckily, they were not major chapters and so aren't particularly long so they will be very quickly edited and uploaded!
> 
> It's my boy! Alive post-BoW! Who would've thought? Not me! He's not exactly the primary focus of this story but I thought it would be nice to include him still and bring about his arc in a way that was both satisfying yet alternative and different. (Don't get me wrong, I didn't mind how he went in Season 8, but I imagined him living past the battle with the dead if I'm honest).
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed. Next chapters to be up shortly.  
\- also, the bane of my existence, Grammarly trying to correct 'Theon' to 'Then' every time I type >:( -


	25. Cersei II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am a lioness. I will not cringe for them."

Cersei stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, her hands balled into fists so hard and tight that blood began to seep from her skin. The Mountain trailed behind her closely, forming a wall between her and the others.

Qyburn said nothing, silently watching her like a hawk. Cersei didn’t like it. It made her think he was up to something or knew something she did not. It made her gut wrench and her nostrils flare in anxiety and anger. Euron Greyjoy, on the other hand, did not cease his monologue the entire journey to her rooms, pausing only to wink and laugh at his own crude jokes. To Cersei, it was all white noise.

Qyburn had informed her of the Northern news in the hall, and she wanted to explode. The Dragon bitch had won her dead man’s war with barely half her troops gone and soon would turn her monsters south to take her throne. She would not let them, no, this was her throne, House Lannister’s throne. She would burn everything before the silver-haired woman could place her crown on her own head.

Cersei burst into Maegor’s Holdfast, heading straight to her desk to resume her work. She had to prepare, had to prevent the bitch from winning this war.

“Your Grace, have you heard a word I’ve just said? My little bitch of a nephew infiltrated my city!” Euron exclaimed.

“Lord Greyjoy, I don’t care.” She replied curtly as she sat down. Euron baulked at her response.

“You should! I managed to keep an important asset of yours, an important hostage. What if they infiltrate it again and burn your fleet?” Euron said.

_ Burn my fleet? _ No, she couldn’t have that. She put a hand to her stomach instinctively.

“Then place the woman on your own ship, they will not burn the Silence with her aboard,” Cersei commanded. Why he had not done so before, she did not know. Stupidity, no doubt. There were no intelligent Houses left in her kingdoms, it seemed.

“And what of Queen Daenerys? Surely she’ll be heading south soon?” Euron continued, pestering her.

Cersei grabbed the bottle of wine perched on the side of her desk and threw it at him, missing him by a head so that it crashed and exploded against the stone wall, the glass shattering all over the floor.

“She is not a Queen! I am the Queen!” Cersei yelled, rising from her seat. The Targaryen was a pretender, a little foreign bitch who had lived her life with savages across the Narrow Sea. The Seven Kingdoms did not deserve her.

Euron stayed where he was, his mouth shut tight in fear. The man also looked slightly aroused at her outburst, to which Cersei scoffed and sat back down.

“I demand your loyalty, Euron. If all goes well, she will not be heading South at all. There is a plan A and a plan B.” Cersei said as she glanced at Qyburn. The man stood there, a small smirk forming on his face at her words. _Perfect_, she thought. All would be well soon enough.

In front of her, all of her correspondence demanded her attention, the ink and the parchment ready for her to write her will and it be executed. She waved both men away so that she was left with her protector and the whispers of the letters on her desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol she's back, and she's on one as per usual.
> 
> Again, a short chapter, but like Theon, Cersei's POVs are still important and I didn't want to just leave her like SOME did (looking at you D&D).
> 
> Also hi Euron.


	26. Jaime V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The gods have no mercy. That's why they're gods."

Jaime sat on a fallen tree, one that had been felled by the dead in their attack. He was far enough from the castle he could not hear the striking of the anvils and bustle of the people, and for that, Jaime was glad. The whole keep had become tense the past few days, and Jaime wanted nothing to do with it.

This would be his spot, he had decided, where he would come to grieve without the people of Winterfell bothering him. Here, Jaime Lannister, the infamous and terrible Kingslayer, would weep until he couldn’t any longer. Here, no one could see his tears.

Jaime had barely eaten for days, his strength leaving him with each passing night. _ Brienne would be telling me to eat_, he thought. She would know how to support him, how to knock enough sense into him that he would stand from this dying tree a proper man and a proper knight.

But no, she was dead. Ashes in the wind. The thought of her on that funeral pyre, of the moment her hand went slack on his face, the moment her back was slashed by ice, made him sob. The last time Jaime had felt such grief was when he had returned to the capital to discover his last son had thrown himself from the Keep and Cersei sat on his throne instead.

Brienne was gone. As dead as his parents and his children. Never to return. Jaime polished his sword as he sat, tears streaming down his face. He was free to cry in this woodland. In Winterfell, there was no sympathy for the Kingslayer.

It was warranted, he supposed. But it didn’t make Brienne’s death hurt any less. _ It should have been me_, he thought. Brienne should be sat here, mourning him as his ashes flew away in the wind. The thought made Jaime cry harder.

Behind him, there was a crunch in the snow. Tyrion appeared from behind a dark tree, a sad look on his face as he witnessed his brother’s tears.

“Jaime… I saw you leave the castle. I thought you might want some company.” Tyrion said kindly.

“I’m good.” Jaime was curt. He did not desire his brother’s wit and optimism at this moment. The man had lost nothing in that battle.

“Brienne was a good woman,” Tyrion began as he leaned on the fallen tree. “She will be missed greatly.”

Jaime scoffed. A politician's answer. No heart. No soul. Just words in the wind. Tyrion’s face soured at his response.

“Jaime, I’m serious. I didn’t know her well, but I know you did. She didn’t deserve to die just yet.” Tyrion said.

“No. She didn’t.” Jaime replied, avoiding eye contact with the dwarf.

Tyrion sighed. Jaime had never been one for ‘feelings’, and if he did, those conversations were always with Cersei. She would never listen very well, though. Brienne did. Brienne listened.

“You loved her,” Tyrion said quietly.

Jaime said nothing. To say it would make it real. He would not have lost a friend but lost a love. Jaime’s heart couldn’t handle that.

“Love destroys us in the end. All relationships end in tragedy, whether it be death or heartbreak.” Tyrion said.

Jaime glanced at him, to find Tyrion’s face forlorn and lost. No doubt he was thinking of the whore he had fallen for, though Jaime could not remember her name. _ Perhaps he is right_, he thought, _ perhaps love is meant to destroy us_.

“Yes, well, it doesn’t matter now.” Jaime sighed.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Tyrion repeated.

Both men stared at the trees around them, silent except for the odd cough and sniffle from the cold. Two lions of Casterly Rock, weeping in the woods at lost loves. Their father would be laughing at them from the grave.

“I suppose you have heard, hm?” Tyrion said finally. Jaime said nothing, shrugging his shoulders. “The Queen and the Warden are to marry.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows. He had suspected they were involved, but had not imagined it would amount to more than a dalliance. Snow was a bastard after all.

“Well, good for them,” Jaime exclaimed. He did not care for the dealings of others. _ Love may destroy us, yes, but let people be happy. Even if just for a little while. _

“Yes… good for them.” Tyrion crossed his arms as he replied. The dwarf sighed and pushed himself from the fallen oak. “I suppose I should return to the castle, I have some troop movements I need to discuss with the Spider.”

Jaime nodded, bidding farewell to his brother. His crying had stopped, so perhaps Tyrion’s presence was not completely unnecessary. Tyrion walked away briskly and loudly, his feet stomping through the fresh snow erratically like bells. The man was clearly in a hurry.

As silence returned to the woods, Jaime resumed the polishing of his sword.

In the distance, Jaime saw the speck of a man weave between the trees towards the western clearing, crossbow in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can I get an "uh oh"?
> 
> next chapter up soon


	27. Daenerys VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me, Bronn. If I told you to kill a babe... an infant girl say, still at her mother's breast... would you do it? Without question?"
> 
> "Without question? No... I'd ask how much."

Dany needed some fresh air. She needed the cold breeze on her face instead of the claustrophobia which engulfed Winterfall. All the tension and anxiety had gotten to her lately, and she needed time with her sons. She walked out of the keep and towards the clearing where they had nested since their arrival. A group of Unsullied were adamant to accompany her, but she commanded they keep their distance. She wished to be alone.

Theon Greyjoy had arrived at Winterfell, and the love he demonstrated towards the Starks, especially Sansa, had unnerved her greatly. There were few here so strong in their loyalty to her, to her cause. She supposed she had been in Westeros less time than the rest, having endured her suffering in Essos instead. She had suffered here, as well, and more suffering was no doubt yet to come, but the petty lords of Westeros cared little for her pain. Only their own.

Daenerys approached the blackened clearing where her sons resided, intent on keeping them company for a little while. Much to her chagrin, Drogon was gone, likely hunting for the two of them due to Rhaegal’s injuries. A large portion of his wing had been severely shredded, and parts of his head were still healing over. He was too weak to fly for now and it had been one of the many reasons she was reluctant to return south. 

Her green son purred as she approached, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her smile. He had always been the sweetest, the least defiant of the three. She was not even sure the dragon had ended its mourning for their lost brother yet. She certainly hadn’t. She reached towards him slowly, intent on giving him a soft caress to the snout.

A bolt whizzed by her head, narrowly missing.

The dragon roared, anger brewing at the attack. Daenerys ducked and turned, terrified. She looked behind her frantically for the culprit, for the man who dared to murder her or her sons.

A man in a mercenary's garb and a brown shaggy beard raised his crossbow to aim at her again.

Daenerys rolled, scrambling to the side of her dragon. Rhaegal took the hit and cried out in anger. Her eyes were wide in horror as her sweetest son whimpered in pain. The arrow had struck him right in the face, just above his eye, a place where his the leathery skin had yet to turn to stony scale.

She looked to the woodland to her right and ran instinctively. Rhaegal attempted to follow, to shield his mother as she ran, but she did not know whether the man wished to kill her, or him.

“Sōvegon! Jikagon! Kostilus!” She screamed as she fled. Rhaegal hesitated, but nonetheless obeyed his mother, spreading his wings to gather as much strength as he could to launch himself into the air. He struggled, landing back on the ground a few times before finally taking flight.

It was enough of a distraction, the man with the crossbow having aimed at her wounded son instead of her as she fled across the snowy clearing.

She broke into the tree line, grateful she was wearing her grey dress today instead of her white. She stumbled across the fallen branches, panting and heaving as she took flight across the shrubbery.

Another bolt.

This time, it struck a nearby tree, but it was enough for her to run faster than she had ever done before. The man behind her seemed to swear, the loud thud of the crossbow hitting the snow spurring Daenerys to look behind her briefly.

The man pulled out his sword, and it shone in the noon daylight. She spotted a large wide tree and hid behind it as the man advanced. She held her breath, her hand covering her mouth as the woodland became quiet. Daenerys was terrified.

The man walked slowly, his feet crunching the snow as he walked. When he could not spot her, his pace quickened.

Daenerys grabbed a nearby branch, one that was thick and heavy, and prepared to defend herself. She had only wielded a blade at the battle and even then Jorah had been there to protect her.

Here, she was alone.

As the man neared her hiding place, she swung the branch as fast and hard as she could, hitting him right in the face. He stumbled back onto the ground, shocked at her attack. She bolted.

“You cunt! You’ve broken my nose!” He yelled as she fled.

Daenerys did not care. The adrenaline in her veins pumped so quickly she had no thoughts of her own. Up above her, her dragons wailed, unable to locate her in the dense woodland. If she had any luck left in this world, it would alert the Keep something was wrong.

The man was catching up to her, quickly and surely, and when he was close enough he grabbed a fistful of her hair and brought her to the ground with a slam.

She punched and kicked as he tried to overpower her, her nails clawing at his face, making it bleed. He became increasingly more annoyed. Finally, she kicked him right in the crotch, causing him to back off for long enough that she could scramble across the snow.

She threw anything she could find at him as he advanced, rocks and branches, even the dragon pin in her hair.

Her back hit a wall of rock. When she glanced behind her, she had reached a small cliff edge with a delicate waterfall streaming from the side. She panicked, her eyes wide and frantic as she found nowhere else to run.

The man picked himself off the ground and laughed.

“Sorry, Dragon Queen, it’s only business. A silver head for my castle.” He sneered.

“Which castle?” She whispered. She did not know why she asked that question. She did not know what else she could say. She didn't want to die yet. The dragons shrieked. The beat of armoured boots hitting the cold ground grew in the distance. They would be too late, Daenerys realised.

“Riverrun. Beautiful castle, almost as beautiful as your head will be when I deliver it to Cersei.” The man smiled as he raised his sword.

Daenerys squeezed her eyes shut, ready for the slash of the blade. The famous Dragon Queen, felled by a mercenary in the woods. Queen of nothing, breaker of nothing. Such was the way of the world.

Instead of the cold and bitter steel of the blade puncturing her skin, Daenerys heard the clang of metal meeting. Her eyes shot open. Jaime Lannister stood in front of her, his sword blocking her death.

The Kingslayer heaved his sword forward, throwing the man off balance. He slashed as the man fell, wounding his shoulder. The mercenary fell to the ground screaming. The wound was not to kill but to maim.

“Bronn, what the fuck are you doing!” Jaime yelled. Daenerys was confused.

“This is typically how assassinations work, Jaime. I admit I would have done it quieter, but Cersei insisted it be dramatic.” The man joked, clutching at his shoulder in pain. 

The boots of her men drew closer, their shouting beginning to split her ears. Jaime sheathed his sword, satisfied he had incapacitated Bronn. He turned back to her then, his left hand reaching out to help her up. Dany stared at it for a moment, her blood still pumping and her mind swirling. When Jaime stretched his hand again as a prompt, she took it, and he pulled her up from the snow.

The two stared at each other for a long moment. No words came out of her mouth, still too shocked by the encounter. Grey Worm and Ser Davos led a group of soldiers towards them, only separating to grab her assailant off the ground.

“Your Grace! Are you hurt?” Davos pleaded. Dany turned to him and shook her head. No injuries of a physical kind, at least.

Bronn was yelling as he was dragged away, blood gushing from his wound. If she was unlucky, he would bleed out before she could burn him alive. Only now was she calming down, her fear replaced with fiery rage. Cersei would pay for this, she decided.

When Daenerys turned back to thank her rescuer, the Kingslayer was gone.

She looked around confused, her eyes a little sad. The infamous Jaime Lannister, the man who had butchered her father, saved her from the blade of an assassin. To her, it made little sense. 

She sighed, her hands clasping together to keep them from shaking. She picked up her hairpin from the snow and shoved it back in her hair. Daenerys followed the men dragging her would-be killer, her eyes boring into his as the dragons roared above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Valyrian Translation: "Fly! Go! Please!")
> 
> *raises a middle finger into the air at Bronn*
> 
> nothing gets the blood pumping like a little bit of ATTEMPTED MURDER!  
Also, I'm not trying to give off a damsel in distress vibe, but Dany literally does not know to how to fight, unfortunately... perhaps that will change!


	28. Jon V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

Jon had been leaving the castle to seek out Daenerys when she stormed through the gates, flanked by Unsullied and Northern soldiers and a man half-injured and yelling. Her hair was dishevelled, her soft grey dress stained wet with snow and mud. Her eyebrows were pulled down together in fury, and her eyes stared forward in a glare so harsh those who stood in her way recoiled as she walked by. 

Davos approached him first, a hand gripping his shoulder. Jon did not wish to speak with him, but with Daenerys. He wanted to know what was wrong. One of the soldiers walked in with a large and ornate wooden crossbow. The weapon of a rich man, or a king. Jon looked to Davos in a panic.

“An assassin. She’s fine.” Davos whispered, not wishing to declare it to the crowd beginning to form around them.

Jon moved the older man aside to run to Daenerys. She stopped when she saw him, her gaze softening. The soldiers and the assassin continued on past the two as they stood in the middle of the yard.

“Dany…” Jon began.

“Where do you normally do judgements, Jon?” She said slowly. It was not menacing, or authoritative. They both knew that justice came after politics in this world.

He indicated behind him to the Great Hall. The latest man to be executed there was Petyr Baelish, but it seemed he would not be the last. Her eyes flared, her lips pressed into a thin line in barely concealed anger. Before she could step forward, Jon grabbed her arm.

“How? How did he try and kill you?” Jon asked quietly.

“A crossbow.” She whispered, her voice wavering slightly, afraid. Jon’s heart hurt. How dare some assassin try and rid her from this world? How dare he try and take her from him? Jon’s fists clenched tightly, before taking Dany’s hand briefly and squeezing in comfort.

She looked at him, her eyes sad for a brief moment. Jon smiled sadly and followed her inside.

The crowd was jeering, the man having been unceremoniously dumped in front of the head table. When Jon and Daenerys walked in, he could not avoid the unshakable feeling that some were disappointed she had survived.

Daenerys walked around the table, seating herself in the largest middle chair. Jon stayed standing, his hands clasped behind his back angrily. His worry for Daenerys’ safety had been forged into rage. He wanted to rip out this man’s throat for the attempt on her life.

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, yes?” Daenerys stated as the hall fell quiet. The man laughed and nodded his slowly bruising head. “A silver head for a castle was what you said, right before you attempted to murder me. Tell the lords of this room which castle.”

The man chuckled. “Riverrun.”

In a flash, some of the riverlords present at the back of the room stood and demanded his head, shouting and jeering as the would-be assassin spat on the floor in their direction. Jon’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

“On whose orders?” Daenerys commanded.

Bronn hesitated. Jon already knew the answer, and Bronn already knew what the punishment would be. He simply needed to utter the name.

“Does it matter? Pay me double and I’ll pretend I never existed!” Bronn negotiated, trying to weasel out of his own execution. To his side, a few of the Northern lords chuckled at the attempt.

“Yes, it matters!” Jon interrupted in a yell. He wanted to hear the name from the man’s mouth.

“Cersei! Who else do you think?” Bronn replied in a burst of anger, before calming his voice as best he could. “But we can sort out a deal, surely? Starks aren’t the murdering type, are they?”

Daenerys stood and placed her hands on the table in front of her. “This is not murder, it is justice. And I’m not a Stark.”

The man began to struggle in his leather bounds at the realisation of what was to come. Two Unsullied from the side hurried over to restrain him. 

Daenerys looked as if she were thinking. She needed to execute him in front of the lords, but to burn him would be too reminiscent of her father in their eyes, whether Jon and Dany agreed or not. 

He continued to stare at the smirking man kneeling before them, his rage beginning to bubble over so that he could barely conceal a snarl. Jon had rarely considered himself an angry man - but this one assassin caused his blood to boil.

Jon walked over slowly to stand in front of where Daenerys stood. The crossbow lay at the end of the long table. Both of them glanced at it.

Dany’s eyes began to water, whether in fury or fear Jon did not know.  _ So many men have tried to kill me _ , she said to him once, _ I can’t remember all their names _ . He had not thought much of it at the time, but now, the very thought that people had tried to kill her all her life, to rid her from this world, filled him with a grief and rage that froze right in his heart.

_ They don’t deserve to have their names remembered _ ,  he thought.

Jon stared at her, his hands shaking in a rage to match her own. She was right, this was not murder, but justice. And he wasn’t a Stark, not fully. Not in earnest. He could be both, he decided. A wolf of the pack and a dragon in the sky. The Starks were his family, and so was Daenerys. She stared back at him, understanding, and nodded. 

He walked slowly to the end of the table, where her advisors stood in worry, and brushed his hand over the weapon. Bronn yanked his arms at the men restraining him, desperate to avoid his fate. 

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” Daenerys’ voice rang out. “I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of my Name, Rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die.”

Jon watched as she spoke. She was part ethereal, part terrifying. That’s what a Queen should look like, he decided.

Bronn whimpered, both he and the lords watching anxiously to see how he would be executed.

Daenerys looked over to him, and he bowed in return. He picked up the crossbow from the oak table and aimed at his love’s would-be killer. 

He let the bolt fly.

The man collapsed to the floor, the bolt having lodged straight between his eyes. Jon did not enjoy the sight, never had, but for a few moments, his rage subsided. When he turned back to his Queen, she was not staring at Bronn, but at him.

“Hear, hear!” Some of the Lords cried out. Their mood had changed since the battle. She was one of them. Jon hoped the lords sat at the back, their faces grumpy, would soon come to their senses as well. 

Daenerys motioned to her men to remove Bronn’s body from the room, prompting the lords of the North to make their escape as well. No one wanted to be with a body while it rotted on the floor.

Missandei walked over to Daenerys in an instant, whispering softly to her that she will help her sort out her appearance. She was a good friend, Jon believed, she truly stood by her side out of love. Daenerys agreed and looked briefly at Jon and her advisors before she turned to leave. She would talk with him later. Tyrion and Varys left as well, both of them throwing brief glances of worry at Jon as they disappeared in the doorway. 

Jon was left in the hall alone. He placed the crossbow back down on the table before leaning on it, deep in thought. Perhaps he should have killed him with Longclaw, he pondered. Perhaps the bow was too much. Part of Jon didn’t care, the man had attempted to slaughter his future wife. He had allowed himself his brief moment of rage.  _ How Targaryen of you,  _ he laughed at himself at the thought.

His valued silence was disrupted by the fast clacking of heeled boots around the corner. Sansa came into view in front of him, her brows furrowed and her eyes cold.

  
“I hear a man was executed for treason.” She said simply, firmly.

Jon looked at her, his arms crossed. “Yes. A Lannister assassin attempted to kill the Queen.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, so quick that Jon almost missed it. Jon thought he would punch her if something stupid came out of her mouth next.

“Did you execute him?” She said, glancing at the crossbow set down on the table behind him. She would have known if the man had been burned, and Daenerys was not known for wielding a blade.

“Yes,” Jon replied bluntly.

“Did you sentence him?” She shot back.

“No.” He said.

Her lips pressed into a fine line, her own arms crossing as well. She was not happy. Jon rolled his eyes and made sure she saw.

“That’s not right. It should have been you. You should be king. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword!” Sansa replied. 

“Don’t quote father to me! You had Arya kill Littlefinger if I remember the letter you sent correctly.” Jon snapped back.

Sansa’s nose wrinkled and her jaw clenched. She was nowhere near as good at hiding her emotions as she thought, at least not with him. She raised her head in defiance. At least now, her intentions were clear. Jon wondered whether she had hoped Daenerys was dead.

“I don’t know who you think I am, Sansa, but I would never betray Daenerys. It doesn’t matter what you say or do.” Jon moved off the table, stepping forward so that he was eye to eye with his sister-cousin.

Sansa hesitated for a second before replying. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

Of course, he didn’t trust her. Time and time again she had undermined him, neglected to tell him things, rarely treated him as one of her own, especially when they were younger. She was Lady Catelyn’s daughter through and through, and that troubled him.

She had spent years down south, mentored by littlefinger, and now? She wanted the North independent. He couldn’t lie, the Northerners had suffered, but not under the hands of Daenerys. Could they even survive on their own? They relied on the South for food and assistance. Jon thought it was a dream. A lovely one, yes, but dreams don’t win wars or put food on people’s tables.

He hesitated. He did not wish to tell her outright, did not wish to drive her further away. But neither could he think of any other answer.

“Not enough.” He finally settled on. She looked troubled at his answer. “I won’t let you threaten Daenerys’ life or my own, or the fragile alliance that is currently stopping Cersei Lannister marching North to wipe us out. She’s going to be your family too, you’d do well to remember that.”

Sansa stepped back as if offended. She stumbled over her words for a few seconds, uncharacteristically so, before finally retorting.

“A marriage will not satisfy the North for long, you would be a consort, not a king. You as the ruling monarch would make the Northerners happier.” She replied.

“Or would it make you?” Jon snapped. 

She had ignored his emotional appeal - so it was to be politics, then. He had always tried to be patient with her when he could, but now she was toeing a line even he was not willing to let her cross without consequence. She baulked at his comment, her mouth open in shock.

“I-I… She’s not one of us, Jon, don’t you see that?” Sansa replied, her voice wavering. There was an element of panic in her tone. “We have suffered so much! The North is not safe in the hands of people not willing to protect it! What does the Dragon Queen know of our pain?”

Jon stood silent for a moment, processing her words. Sansa wanted her home safe, just as he did. Daenerys would protect them, couldn’t she see that? His sister had suffered much at the hands of others, and for that, he would often let her off in her defence of herself and Winterfell - but to imply Dany did not understand? That she would not protect her good-sister as she would her own flesh and blood? Sansa simply did not know her well enough.

“Talk to her. Talk to Daenerys, face to face, woman to woman. You might have more in common than you think.” Jon said sternly. He wanted Sansa to understand.  _ Not everyone is an enemy. _

Sansa said nothing. She simply stared at the floor, deep in thought. He hoped those thoughts were good. Jon brushed past her, swiftly walking towards the doorway that would lead him to his future wife, his Queen. He turned to face Sansa once more, his voice strong with authority.

“You’re not to tell a soul, Sansa. If you do, I will not stop the Queen, do you understand?” He said.

She nodded, tentatively, as if she had been scolded like a child. Yet, the fire in her eyes remained, and Jon worried at the sight.

Whether his authority over her derived from being Warden of the North or King of the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa should obey. If she did not, then Jon had accepted that he had done all he could.

Jon stormed through the doorway, leaving the red-haired woman alone with her thoughts in the dark, cold hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose you could call this a tentative first step towards Jon embracing both of his families. He desperately wants to protect them both, but how can he do that when they're at odds with one another? 
> 
> In conclusion: Jon needs a hug.  
Dany as well - being nearly murdered is not fun
> 
> (Also: I spent a lot of time thinking about how to kill Bronn - do we do a good ol' "dracarys"? longclaw? At one point I even pondered a Rickon-style 'run before Drogon eats you' but then deemed it OOC. Finally, I settled on the crossbow. An eye for an eye, you could say).
> 
> PS: the implication is that the crossbow is Joffrey's, and was given to Bronn by Cersei. Obviously I'd not explicitly stated in either POVs because how on earth would Dany or Jon know that Joffrey even had a crossbow, nevermind what it looked like? So, yeah. That's that.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed x


	29. Jaime VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For an instant, the deep red clouds that crowned the western hills reminded him of Rhaegar's children, all wrapped up in crimson cloaks."

Night had fallen on Winterfell, the bitterly cold wind beginning to pick up as the inhabitants of the castle wound down. Jaime sat on a bench in the courtyard, not willing to return to his room just yet. The night was clear, the stars visible and glowing bright in the sky. Jaime stared at them for a while, lost in thought.

Plenty of people were still streaming into the keep, cloaked refugees looking for food and shelter, just as they had been doing so for days. Around the corner, a small kitchen had been set up by Davos Seaworth. They were no doubt heading there.

Earlier in the day, he had seen Bronn’s limp body be removed from the keep, a few of the Targaryen Unsullied carrying him on their shoulders. Where he had gone once he had left the walls of Winterfell, Jaime did not know. Burning? A shallow grave? A dragon’s feast? Jaime sighed at the thought.

He had never considered Bronn a trusted friend, but he had known the man still. He cared not for honour or integrity or loyalty, only gold. Prime dog material for House Lannister. Yet here they were, the Kingslayer having outlasted the mercenary that trained him. A bitter end for a bitter man, it seemed. Jaime crossed his arms, exasperated. 

Across the courtyard, Daenerys Targaryen appeared from the archway that led to the Stark Godswood, accompanied by Jon Snow and her Unsullied commander. She had changed clothes, now clad in a deep red dress with a black fur collar. Her hair was wrapped into a single braid, devoid of the pins that had adorned it earlier in the day.

She spotted him as she walked, and whispered something softly to Jon, before kissing him on the cheek and bidding him farewell. The bastard gave him a suspicious glare as he turned to leave, but obeyed all the same. She walked over to him, shadowed by her commander.

“Thank you,” Daenerys said once she had reached him.

Jaime was surprised, his eyebrows rising in confusion. The woman hated him, he thought. A thank you from the ruthless dragon queen was the last thing he expected her to say.

He simply nodded. ‘You’re welcome’ sounded sarcastic, and ‘it’s no bother’ sounded too detached. If this woman was willing to give him a few days mercy from her glares, he’d rather not upset her too soon.

“Why?” She blurted out. When Jaime looked at her again, she seemed younger. 

“Because it was the right thing to do.” He replied without thinking. She scoffed.

“Since when has the Kingslayer done something because it was _ the right thing to do _?” Daenerys spat out. “You’re renowned for letting Targaryens die, forgive me if I expected less from you.”

That hit him. Killing Aerys? He lived without guilt for that one - he had saved King’s Landing from a fiery death by sticking his blade in that madman’s back, but the rest of them? He had failed them, abandoned them despite Rhaegar’s pleas to protect them. When Elia and her children had been dumped in front of Robert, blood seeping from their horrendous wounds, Jaime had told himself it wasn’t his fault. But it had been his responsibility.

He had just never had anyone call him out for it before.

“I’m sorry about that. I really am.” He said softly. Daenerys seemed stunned at his confession, her eyes desperately searching for the joke. “I failed them.”

“You did.” She replied quickly and bitterly. “My father deserved his death, I know that. But they didn’t.”

“I know.” He said mournfully.

They had always been aware that Viserys and his sister lived, but never did Jaime think he would stand face to face with one of them - and admit his wrongdoing. The Lannister pride in him wanted to tell her to fuck off. But he knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t want to be that anymore.

Daenerys moved to sit next to him on the large wooden bench, her hands clasped together and her back arched. Jaime was talking to Daenerys, it seemed. Not the Dragon Queen.

“I don’t forgive you. One act will not absolve you.” She whispered, staring forward towards the courtyard.

_ One act will not absolve you_. 

Jaime nodded slowly, understanding. He had been the Kingslayer for twenty-odd years - what were a few more?

“I didn’t help you out of a quest for forgiveness. I did it because it was what Brienne would have done.” Jaime finally said. It was the truth. Brienne would have never abandoned a person in peril, whether she agreed with them or not.

Daenerys shot him a sad smile. “I’m sorry for your loss. From what I hear, she seemed like a good woman.”

“She was,” Jaime said quietly. Tears threatened to form in his eyes at the thought of her.

They continued to sit in silence, neither of them willing to get up and leave just yet. They sat for a while thinking of the ones they had lost. For Daenerys, the ones she had never known. The thought made his heart fill with guilt and pity.

“Is there anything we should know? Anything that can help us against Cersei?” She asked, breaking the silence.

“Varys and Tyrion know the defence of King’s Landing better than me.” He replied. “But, as for Cersei… She wants to win. Desperately. She will do _anything_. Kill _ anyone_.”

Daenerys sighed.

“I do know that she’s recruited the Golden Company from Essos.” Jaime continued. Daenerys’ head whizzed back around in surprise. In concern. “I don’t know what she’ll use them for but they’re exceptionally good. They’ve likely already arrived.”

Her brows furrowed, concerned for this new obstacle. In a battle, Jaime did not see how it would make much of a difference. What were an extra thousand men to a dragon? Jaime had seen firsthand the horror she had unleashed at the Goldroad. She could do it again.

“Very well. We will begin discussions once my dragons have recovered and the armies rested and reorganised. If they’re here already, there’s nothing we can do about it now.” Daenerys said. She stood from the bench, brushing the dirt from her dress.

“Your Grace? May I ask what you plan to do with my sister?” He asked abruptly, not even realising the words were even spilling from his mouth.

She turned to look down at him but said nothing. It was all the answer he needed. 

He was conflicted. He did not wish to see her head on a pike, or her body turned to a crisp. But he understood. He had made his choice to abandon her. He must make his peace with it, he realised. He could not save his sister from her fate. Daenerys too looked torn, but a finely tuned mask fell on her face after a few moments of thought.

“Ser Jaime,” She said firmly, before turning on her heel to leave. Jaime did not stand as she walked away.

Instead, his head fell into his hands, and Jaime Lannister wept silently for those he had failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, can I get uhh... *looks at writing on hand*... a possible Jaime Lannister redemption fic?
> 
> A very tentative first step towards not being such a dickhead for Jaime here, and perhaps a first step towards understanding justice better for Dany.
> 
> I actually really like making these two talk bc there's such a loaded history there! There's so much these two could understand from one another and I think D&D really missed a trick - ya know... if they didn't want to destroy their character arcs :/
> 
> May take a while for the next chapter, I am struggling with it in particular and I am very mindful about handling in properly. Trigger warning will apply.


	30. Cersei III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds, she said."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF MISCARRIAGE-

Cersei was shrieking.

She had locked herself in her rooms for hours, sobbing and screaming, unable to cope. Unwilling to let anyone help her.

The early morning sun loomed over the horizon, illuminating the dark room with each passing second. Someone was banging at the door, begging her to let them in. Qyburn, perhaps. Cersei did not care.

Her night shift was drenched in blood, as was her bed. She had sat against the wall, weeping at the sight.

_ My baby, my baby, my baby, my baby, my baby! _ The words spiralled in her mind.

Cersei could think of nothing else. She was so lightheaded she thought she would faint, but the pain kept her awake.

Her baby was gone. The future of House Lannister. Her heir, her child.

Cersei continued to wail through the pain and grief. The door burst open, splintering off the hinge.

“Your Grace!” Qyburn yelled, his sprint towards her faltering at the sight of her and the bed. He reached out to touch her, but Cersei slapped him away.

“She’s killed him!” Cersei shrieked, the only possibility she could think of dominating her hurting head. “That bitch has killed my baby! With m-magic... or something!”

Qyburn grew confused at her rambling and attempted to comfort her again.

“I’ll kill her!” Cersei continued to yell, tears streaming down her eyes. “I’ll rip her silver head clean off her shoulders!

Qyburn panicked. “Your Grace, let’s get you some clean clothes, let’s calm y-”

“DO NOT TELL ME TO CALM! She did this!” Cersei yelled, her hands clawing at Qyburn’s cloak as he lifted her from the ground.

It was just like Maggy the Frog said… another Queen would come and take everything she had! Her children would be wrapped in golden shrouds!

Cersei shook as she walked, weak and tired from the pain and the loss. Everyone was against her, everyone wished to see her and House Lannister in the ground!

Cersei would burn them all before they could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, only a short one, but I don't think a long and in-depth chapter was necessary for such a horrible moment for Cersei.
> 
> I didn't particularly want to write this, as I felt like such an important moment for her couldn't just be information in another chapter. I remembered reading that Lena Headey had recorded such a scene for the season, but that it wasn't used in the end - for reasons unknown.
> 
> Cersei has always been controlled and directed by what Maggy told her in the woods as a child - and is very much the driving force of what is, unfortunately, spiralling her into paranoia and irrationality. This is not to say that 'I think miscarriage makes women go mental', but that this is the final straw in the slow and tragic descent of Cersei Lannister.
> 
> I do hope I have portrayed and handled it in a way that is appropriate, but if I have not, please do let me know so I can make changes.


	31. Sansa IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Once, she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trust his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's head. Sansa would never make that mistake again."

Sansa sat in one of the wooden chairs dotted around in the library. The dark room had been turned into a makeshift war room - the oak table in the middle now adorned with a large paper map of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa gazed at it, her chin resting on her fist, lost in thought as she stared at the outline of the North.

_ If Jon were king, I would be safe_, she thought. She would be safe from the flame of the Dragon Queen and the blades of Cersei. She would be in Winterfell, her brother crowned in the South. Winterfell could protect her, and Jon could protect Winterfell.

But no, Jon wished to stand at the foot of the Iron Throne while Daenerys Targaryen ruled over them all with fire and blood. Jon couldn’t stop her, _ wouldn’t stop her_. The thought terrified Sansa.

People began to file into the room, Grey Worm, Theon, Yohn Royce and some others. The bald spider entered behind them, his eyes scanning the room until they landed happily on her. Sansa wanted to roll her eyes, the man was not as subtle in Winterfell when he was surrounded by men and women playing a different game than his own.

“Lady Sansa, a pleasure!” Varys said with a sickly smile, sitting in the chair next to her. It was faker than the one the Dragon Queen had flashed her when she arrived in Winterfell.

“Lord Varys,” Sansa replied, courteously but bluntly.

“It is nice to hear of the Queen and the Warden’s betrothal, is it not?” He proclaimed loudly. Small talk, Sansa realised. It was all for show.

“Yes, it’s... lovely,” Sansa said tensely, not looking at him. She was still conflicted about it. She wanted more. The spider smiled again, wider this time.

“Well… word does travel quickly in kingdoms! A shame they didn’t inform you, isn’t it? You are an important woman after all…” Varys whispered, leaning towards her.

Yes, they didn’t tell her. She had found out from Lord Glover, of all people. Sansa had never been so irritated in her life.

“Such a shame!” Varys continued, his voice lower, quiet enough that the rest who were filing into the room would not hear. “Keeping secrets is not proper behaviour for such a royal couple.”

Sansa paused. Did he know? Or was he like her, that he knew he didn’t know _something_?

She contemplated telling him - to let it be shouted from the towers of Winterfell that Jon was the rightful king. But Jon’s words held her back. He didn’t trust her, _ not enough_, he had said. Her pack was falling apart. If she spoke, any trust and love Jon had left for her would be gone. Her own brother would let her be torched if she were to reveal what she knew.

Sansa didn’t want to destroy the love and trust of her family. She also didn’t want to be dead, believe it or not.

So, Sansa remained silent.

The Spider gave up, sighing briefly before moving from the chair to the outer edges of the room where he normally lurked before such meetings. Sansa wanted Daenerys to be rid of him - the man meant nothing but trouble. Little birds could always be moved to another nest.

Varys’ attention was diverted when others began to stream into the cold room. The Kingslayer and Tyrion, and then Jon and Daenerys. Sansa huffed at the sight and followed as the rest of the room stood, albeit reluctantly.

Jon sat next to her, at one of the heads of the long table. Daenerys sat at the other end, flanked by Tyrion and the rest of her advisors. Everyone was silent, waiting for the Queen to begin the agenda.

Sansa already wanted to leave, but couldn’t. She practically invited herself to the meeting, despite Jon’s anger, and to flee would mean to give up her voice. She wouldn’t accept such a concept. A young servant girl poured wine for each person around the table, but Sansa covered her cup with her hand. She wanted a clear head.

“Cersei Lannister,” Daenerys said abruptly, demanding the attention of the room. The Lannister men shuffled uncomfortably at the mention of their sister. “She is the threat that remains. The obstacle to peace for the realm. When we are ready and rested, we must move and without delay.”

Jon spoke up. “The North lost roughly a third of its men in the battle against the dead, your Grace. The other third is injured, but the majority of them will recover in the coming weeks. We stand ready to fight when you command.” 

_ We? _ Speak for yourself, brother. There are men out there unwilling to kneel to your foreign queen and you have yet to take notice or action. Daenerys’ eyes were on her, gauging her reaction. Sansa simply stared back.

“Northerners don’t break oaths.” Jon finished, noticing the icy exchange.

“Good. Should my own men recover well enough, we may not need to take as many of them South and leave Winterfell undefended.” Daenerys replied.

Sansa was surprised she even cared.

“Then how do you mean to take King’s Landing? If you leave half the army?” Yohn Royce blubbered, out of turn. He had been invited as a courtesy, but the Knights of the Vale had been decimated in the battle, perhaps not even a fifth of them remained.

Daenerys practically rolled her eyes. Was it not obvious?

“Have you looked at the sky while you’ve been here, my Lord?” The Queen joked. The rest of the room snickered, and the man went red in the face - in embarrassment and anger. “My sons are our greatest asset. They can kill faster and quicker without any of the losses.”

Sansa hated how she referred to them. Sons. They were not babies, but beasts. They did not burp and cry - they burned. Perhaps it was a sign of her madness.

Tyrion coughed loudly. “Your Grace, I thought we had agreed to a siege?”

“And let Cersei escape as the city starves?” Daenerys snapped back.

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably again, his influence clearly waning over the Targaryen Queen, it seemed.

Sansa thought she had a point.

“Agreed. Cersei would almost certainly flee across the Narrow Sea, or to the Iron Islands if she saw she was losing.” Sansa interrupted. Daenerys glanced at her, shocked and wary of her agreement in the matter.

“She won’t flee, not on her own. Cersei wants her throne. If she leaves the capital, it’s because she means to take it back.” Jaime interjected. Daenerys hummed, thinking it over. Cersei would likely flee if Euron lived. The solution? Kill Euron.

Daenerys seemed to think the same thing, turning her attention to the young Greyjoy sat between her and Yohn Royce. He was quiet, and Sansa saw his hands fidget and shake under the table.

“We have to destroy the Iron Fleet before Cersei has a chance to escape,” Daenerys said, coming to her conclusion. Everyone nodded.

“Can’t you just… burn it… your Grace?” Theon asked tentatively. He was unsure what he was needed for.

Varys cleared his throat, already annoying Sansa before he opened his mouth. “After your… escapade in Lordsport, Euron has moved her to the Silence. We cannot burn the fleet with the true Lord of the Iron Islands onboard.”

“Or… we could take the Iron Islands first? Draw him away?” Tyrion interjected again - his finger wagging as if he were the king.

“He wouldn’t fall for it,” Theon replied bluntly.

Tyrion collapsed back into his chair, growing increasingly irate by the second. Sansa almost pitied him. He was not the clever and influential man he used to be, it seemed.

“I agree. Our best bet for saving Yara is to do so during the battle.” Daenerys said firmly.

Was all this really necessary? For one woman? Sansa could not see how Yara was such an important asset - Daenerys already had a fleet at her disposal, albeit a small one. She didn’t need a fleet to burn down the gates of King’s Landing.

“Is it really wise to devote too many resources to rescue Lady Greyjoy? Is it not a distraction?” Sansa quipped. She couldn’t help but be intrigued by Daenerys’ interest in saving the woman.

“Like Rickon?” Jon snapped beside her.

Sansa’s head whizzed around in shock. Shock that he had said it, shock that he had said it to a room full of strangers. None of the others seemed to understand the context - except maybe Lord Royce and Davos, who she hadn’t even noticed sitting in the corner of the room. Sansa seethed, her hands gripping the armchair. He had already insulted her the other day in the hall, she did not wish to suffer his criticism again.

Sansa remained quiet, bullied under the cold gaze of her brother and Theon.

“Hmm…” Varys said, disturbing the tense silence that had fallen on the table. “I understand your hesitation, Lady Sansa, but you cannot rule a realm if you don't have any lords to rule. Compromise is necessary. The realm must always win.”

Most of the room ignored him, his words of fancy falling on deaf ears. Sansa, though, listened intensely. She was unsure of his goal before, but she was completely lost now. Littlefinger’s little game didn’t work on spiders.

“Exactly, but just because she is not useful does not mean she is not worth rescuing.” Daenerys interrupted, reading the tenseness of the room. “But there is no need to rush these discussions and battle plans. We will reconvene when required.”

Everyone stood as she stood, bowing and nodding and the like as they took their leave. Some took long swigs of the wine poured for them, but Daenerys had left hers untouched. 

Jon left last, taking a moment to linger as he exchanged loving eyes with Daenerys. Sansa could have thrown up at the sight. Sansa made her move to leave, to escape the oppressive cold of the room.

“Lady Sansa, a word?” Daenerys’ voice rang out as Jon closed the door behind him, blocking her escape. Sansa turned around slowly, a small and polite smile spreading across her face.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said. Jon had told her to speak with the Queen - but Sansa did not wish to engage in small talk and pleasantries with the woman who planned to steal her home.

Daenerys motioned for her to sit, closer than she had been during the meeting.

Sansa was curious, seeing as Jon had clearly put her up to this. She wondered what the Dragon Queen thought she would get out of such a conversation.

“I am aware you know, Lady Sansa.” Daenerys began, returning Sansa’s polite smile. “I am also aware that Jon has commanded you to tell no one. So I ask this simple question… are you going to obey?”

Sansa glared at her as they sat opposite each other. If she were honest, Sansa did not know the answer. She could use it to blackmail Daenerys at a later date, she supposed, or release it to the Northern lords so that they unnamed Jon as their king. But Sansa did not know the outcome of any of these - she did not know whether the lords would embrace Jon as their King of the Seven Kingdoms or discard him because of his Targaryen lineage. She did not know whether Daenerys would burn her preemptively, or wait until Sansa had destabilised her reign in its infancy.

Her other option was to keep her mouth shut and save her hide.

So many possibilities. Sansa wondered which one Littlefinger would have chosen. Jon on the throne protected her, to put it simply. 

Sansa cleared her throat and went for the vaguest answer. “I will always obey my rightful ruler.” 

Daenerys’ eyes narrowed in confusion and suspicion. _ Good_. _If she is an egomaniac, she will take that to mean herself_. She would overlook whether she meant the King in the North or the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

“I understand. I really do,” Daenerys said softly, her hand reaching out to near Sansa’s on the table. “The North has suffered great injustices at the hands of those not fit to wear their crowns. I swear that I will not be the same. You will be safe with me, Lady Sansa, but we must trust each other.”

“Safe?!” Sansa snapped back, as polite and calm as she could. “No other King or Queen to the South has kept me _safe_! I have suffered at the hands of people I thought I could trust, _ your Grace_. I have been beaten and humiliated and betrayed! Forced to marry horrid men and raped! Those I trusted to keep me safe stole my family and my home! I swore to myself I would never endure such horrors again.”

Daenerys paused, stunned at the young Stark’s emotional outburst. Sansa did not know whether she regretted it. She had always kept it close to herself, not declaring it to strangers and people who could use it against her, but the young girl in her had cried out in her pain. 

The Dragon Queen straightened in her chair, still in silence, and softly placed her hand on Sansa’s. She looked her straight in the eye.

“I have suffered at the hands of the people I thought I could trust, Lady Sansa. I have been beaten and humiliated and betrayed. I have been forced to marry horrible men and raped. Those who my family trusted to keep them safe stole their lives and our home.” Daenerys said quietly. It was stern, a calm retort to Sansa’s words.

Sansa stared back in silence. This was not a woman mocking her. It was a woman _relating to her_.

“The men and women who did all that to us never deserved their crowns and power. Those who hurt you...Ramsay, Joffrey, Petyr Baelish… are dead in their graves. As are those who hurt me. We stand here today, free of them. They can’t hurt us anymore. What greater justice is there in the world than that?” Daenerys continued.

“There’s more. There’s always more.” Sansa said.

“Then we will get rid of them as well,” Daenerys replied.

Sansa had not expected this. The ferocious Dragon Queen did not strike her as someone who cared, someone who would protect her.

_ No_, Sansa thought quickly, _ this is all a ploy. _ She was scared Sansa would tell everyone and was therefore lying! The woman had grown up in the manses of rich Essosi merchants, with a brother who protected her and was later betrayed by her and her barbarian husband. Sansa knew the story. Sansa could see the truth.

She snatched her hand away, terrified at the prospect that Daenerys would care for her in the slightest. It was all lies - everything and everyone. Sansa stood from her chair and Daenerys looked up at her sadly.

She rose as well, standing several inches shorter than the red-headed Stark. She said nothing, having said everything she wanted to. She could do nothing more.

Daenerys breezed past her towards the door. Sansa turned to watch her leave, her head a mess of thoughts and worries as the young Targaryen Queen walked away, not even sparing a glance at Sansa as she left the door open behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer-ish chapter to make up for the incredibly short Cersei one.  
\------------  
So close! But one conversation will not change Sansa's mind. Let's just say she is actively resisting the cognitive dissonance (I think that's the right word?) that's going on in her head. The part of her head that tells her to trust no one, and the part of her head that is begging to be trusted and kept safe.
> 
> Also Varys? shut the fuck up


	32. Arya IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The septons preach the seven hells. What do they know? Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is truly like."

Arya weaved between the beams in the yard, deftly dodging servants and soldiers in her way. Her eyes were on Sansa, proudly gliding through the crowds of people as she went about her business. 

This was her redemption, Arya had decided. She had told Sansa Jon’s secret and now she would make sure she would not get away with telling anyone else. Arya felt as if she were back in the Winterfell plagued by Littlefinger. But no, this was to help people, help Jon. She had upset him and Daenerys by spilling something dangerous. This was the only thing Arya could think to do to make up for it.

So here she was, fifteen paces behind her sister, blended in with the grey crowd of refugees that were sheltering in the castle. Sansa, however, had done little of note since Arya began her endeavour. A couple of conversations with the Northern lords but not worth anyone once Arya had eavesdropped.

Arya didn’t want to assume Sansa’s guilt. She did not wish to see her sister dead.

Perhaps Sansa knew she was being watched and was either taking care to avoid any conspirators or was actually taking the threat of execution to heart. Arya hoped for the latter.

Sansa was in conversation with Theon Greyjoy, a few hugs and small talk being shared between them as they stood in the courtyard. Arya leaned on a nearby pillar to observe.

“You’re not as good as you think you are.” A gruff voice said behind her. Arya glanced in the direction of the voice, to find the Hound a few steps from her.

She rolled her eyes. “She’s not noticed yet.”

“Yet.” The Hound replied. He moved to stand next to her and handed her a small weapon in its sheath. “Gendry said you asked for this.”

She took it from his hands and placed it gently in her boot. The small dagger was for Daenerys, to defend herself with. A present, Arya supposed.

“Thanks,” Arya said.

The Hound didn’t move, instead snatching an apple from a nearby servant’s box and crunching his teeth into it.

“So… is she on your list now or something?” The Hound asked, his voice deep.

“What? No!” Arya said quickly. Sansa was her sister, for crying out loud. The Hound chuckled, biting into the apple again as Arya glared at him.

“Well forgive me for not knowing if your list got fucking longer.” He joked. Arya didn’t like him joking about her list. The list was a prayer and a promise. The list was  _ hers _ .

She ignored him, returning to observe Sansa’s conversation with Theon. He seemed to be serious, a few tears streaming down his face, as far as Arya could tell.

“You know, you don’t need it. You’re home now.” Sandor whispered. It was softer than usual. The voice of an old man, not a killer.

“You still want to kill your brother, don’t you?” Arya retorted.

“Yup.” He sighed. Arya smiled, her point proven, but the expression on her face caused him to stand further in front of her. “But look what I’m like now. Ugly and mean. I’m gonna kill him, but then what?”

_ He doesn’t want that for me _ , she realised. But how could she stop now? She could not leave Cersei and the Mountain and those that were left to escape from the blade of woe they so rightly deserved. Arya avoided eye contact, leaning around him so she could continue to watch her sister.

“You’re so fucking annoying.” He said, exasperated. She smirked. He meant it, she knew that, but she also knew that he wouldn’t have tolerated her if she wasn’t.

Sansa moved then, hugging Theon before she walked away towards the blacksmith’s area. Arya followed, and the Hound followed her. If he blew her cover, she’d smack the shit out of him.

“You do realise this is your home right? You don’t need to sneak around behind her, just say you’re out and about… or some shit.” The Hound whispered as she leaned around one of the archway walls.

“Is it home?” She whispered, mostly to herself.

“Didn’t realise you were a fucking philosopher...” He said quietly.

“It’s not a bloody concept, Sandor. I mean it.” She said tensely. “Everything’s just… different. You were here with King Robert before all of this - you can’t say it feels the same.”

He said nothing, looking down at the muddy ground instead.

“Mother and father are gone. Robb and Rickon are gone. Sansa’s a politician. Jon’s set to become King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. Bran’s a bird.” She continued.

“He’s a bird?” He asked, confused.

“Not the point!” She replied, still looking at Sansa and not him. “The people here… it doesn’t feel like the honourable Starks of Winterfell anymore, it doesn’t feel like the men at their backs are the proud lords who followed Robb. The North died with Ned Stark.”

She hadn’t meant for it all to spill out, especially not to him. But she knew it. Her father was the North personified, or at least what they strived to be. Since then, everything had changed. For the better or worse, Arya didn’t really know.

Sandor placed a hand on her shoulder, demanding her attention. She glanced at him as he spoke.

“Everyone changes. That’s how the world fucking works. Home gets shitter, and sometimes it gets better. It’s wherever shit place you want it to be, with whatever shit people are there.” He said.

She chuckled, genuinely. “Who’s the philosopher now?”

“Fuck off.” He replied. 

He removed his hand from her shoulder, deciding to leave her to her business. He gave her a small smile, one that only she would notice. They couldn’t let anyone know that the terrifying and murderous Hound had just given advice to a young girl. The reputation damage would be irreversible. Arya chuckled to herself at the thought.

He had a point. But it didn’t change how she felt. How Winterfell felt.

Sansa finished her conversation with one of the armourers, retreating back inside the Keep towards her study.  _ Protect Jon _ , was all Arya could think at that moment.

Arya followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I don't have a lot to say for this one, except I have a soft spot for dad!Sandor and his relationship with Arya.


	33. Cersei IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. Come at once."

<strike> _ Jaime, please come back to m _ </strike>

<strike> _ Come at once! Obey your Quee _ </strike>

<strike> _ Jaime, I love yo _ </strike>

Cersei sat at her desk in Maegor’s Holdfast, frantically writing on the parchment in front of her. Her words were fevered and fervent, desperate for him to return home. Her hands were cramped and her fingers sore from the stress of writing. She had been awake all night, writing her letters.

_ He has to come and help me. He loves me, doesn’t he? Why isn’t he here?! _

Around her, the discarded paper was strewn around the floor, some of them stained red with spilt wine. Servants usually came to deliver her more, but she had smacked one against the pillar after accusing them of poisoning her. Only Qyburn delivered her wine now.

Cersei looked dishevelled. She had not bothered to fix herself up properly for a while. She was no longer sitting in the throne room, not with the lords at least. Cersei thought they all whispered in each other’s ears - speaking treasons and plots. They would turn to the Dragon Queen, she knew it with her whole heart.

The first man to turn his back on his true Queen would have his family slaughtered, she had decided.

Qyburn walked in then, as Cersei violently crossed out and tossed her most recent letter. He had a new bottle of wine, which he placed tenderly on a side table. Cersei stared at him, not blinking.

“Your Grace,” Qyburn said tentatively. He glanced to where the Mountain stood, a few paces from her desk, defending her against all threats.

“Has he responded? Tell me Jaime is coming back!” She yelled, desperate.

Qyburn shook his head and placed the rest of her correspondence on the desk next to her. He took a few step backs from her as her eyes were wild.

“She’s keeping him! That Dragon whore is keeping him from me!” Cersei shrieked. Qyburn sputtered, unsure of how to respond. “My baby is dead because of her! I want her head!”

Cersei grabbed her quill and dunked it in the ink again. She rummaged around the desk for more paper. She needed to write to Jaime, she needed to warn him. Daenerys will take Jaime from her too if he didn’t come back to her, she would murder him, just like she did to the sellsword she sent!

“Your Grace, there is important correspondence in that pile. Perhaps you should attend to that first?” Qyburn said softly, wringing his hands.

She looked to it, the mountainous pile to her left. So many wax seals, so many sharp corners. Cersei could not touch them, for fear she would be cut and die, her crown pried from her dead body.

“My own correspondence is important as well! Read them out!” She demanded.

Qyburn jumped, unnerved, and grabbed the first letter.

“Lord Hightower has withdrawn his men from the Crownlands and returned to Oldtown.” He began.

“Kill him.” She said bluntly as she scribbled, not even looking at her Hand.

Qyburn looked at her and nodded nervously.

“Harry Strickland reports good weather on his journey, hopefully, he can complete his miss...”

Cersei was no longer listening to him. She did not care, as long as everyone who opposed her was dead. Qyburn’s words became white noise, splitting her ears. She could only focus on the ink, bleeding on the paper in front of her.

Her hands shook as she scratched out her latest letter, her eyes seeing nothing but red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh this chapter is my own little personal callback to Cersei's letter to Jaime in AFFC, which he promptly burns. It doesn't really occur in the show, which was a waste - especially as it seems like a really important step for Jaime in his path towards abandoning her.
> 
> Whether the letters actually reach him or not, I have yet to decide.


	34. Daenerys VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The maegi Mirri Maz Duur had sworn she would never bear a living child, and what man would want a barren wife?"

The snow was softly falling on Winterfell, setting so that it covered the muddy slush that had gathered in the aftermath of the battle. Things were improving, slowly, steadily, and soon Winterfell would look as it used to.

Daenerys walked alongside Missandei, their arms linked together. Most ignored them, two noble ladies chatting and nattering around the castle. But some of the people of the North would stare at them, the foreigners in their home. The refugees they had allowed shelter in the camp often glared harder. Daenerys could tell her friend was doing her best to ignore the stares.

Missandei’s eye had healed over mostly, the scars adorning her cheek becoming less raw by the day. Daenerys’ heart bled for her, but she knew the intelligent woman cared little for her beauty.

In a flash, Arya appeared in front of the two women, stopping them dead in their tracks.

“This is for you.” The young Stark said bluntly, holding up a long dagger. It was in its sheath, but Daenerys could tell it had been custom made, a black dragon figurine adorned on its hilt.

“I- I don’t know how to use one.” Daenerys stammered. 

“It’s not hard. I’ll teach you when there is time. Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” Arya said quickly, a small smirk pulling on her lips as she finished her sentence. The girl still avoided eye contact with the Queen, nowhere near as bold and brazen as she had been that first time she had entered Daenerys’ tent unannounced.

The girl wished to atone for her wrongdoings, for telling Sansa Stark of Jon. Daenerys trusted Jon to trust Arya, so had approved of her idea to tail and observe the other sister.

“Thank you, Arya. Anything new with Sansa?” Daenerys asked.

“No, your Grace. Nothing of note.” Arya replied. Daenerys nodded in response, knowing the girl would update her or Jon should something be amiss.

Arya disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.

Daenerys and Missandei continued to walk, chatting about the North, Jon, and the customs that Missandei did not yet understand. But Daenerys could not stop her mind from wandering. The last week had been uneventful, since the execution of the Lannister mercenary, but Daenerys had been feeling unwell. She was queasy and fatigued. She had felt like this once, long ago.

Irri had explained the symptoms to her, back at Vaes Dothrak. Daenerys knew what it was she was experiencing. She dared not say it aloud, for fear of creating a delusion for herself, for fear of raising her hopes that the maegi had been wrong all this time. A part of her was overjoyed, though, and Dany struggled desperately to keep that part in check.

“What’s wrong, your Grace? You seem… lost in thought.” Missandei asked sweetly.

Daenerys’ eyes snapped to her friend, before looking at the ground in front of her as she walked. “Nothing.”

Missandei rolled her eyes. “You’re not a very good liar, my friend. At least not to me.”

She was right, of course. The kind woman had always been true and honest to her, Daenerys could never bring herself to sugarcoat or spin tales to her.

“I… uh… I suspect… something…” Daenerys began, her voice almost a whisper. She steered them both towards the outer areas of the keep, where she knew fewer guards roamed about. “I'm worried... I believe I maybe…”

“You don’t need to say it, your Grace.” Missandei hushed her, understanding immediately. She switched their conversation to High Valyrian. “Why do you worry? Is this not good news?”

Daenerys gave a small, nervous chuckle, and replied in Valyrian as well. “We have known each other for years, my friend, but you were not with me in my days as Drogo’s Khaleesi. The reason I have always said I was barren is because a witch cursed me.”

Missandei’s eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed. “But if you believe you are with child now, surely she was wrong? She could have said it out of spite, to scare you.”

“I don’t know!” Daenerys whispered harshly. “What if I am but he never breathes? What if I promise Jon a child and he already lays dead in my womb? I can’t do that to him… or myself.”

_ If I don't accept it, then it’s not real. If I ignore it, then my heart stays unbroken, _ she thought. 

Nothing scared Dany more than the promise of a dead child. Better no life grow in her at all, than have it come into the world deformed, with flesh like scales and full of maggots. That was how the witch had described Rhaego, and Daenerys had never forgotten it.

“I don’t want to tell him, Missandei. Not yet. I’m scared.” She whispered, tears forming in her eyes.

They were near the entrance to the Godswood, the large fence door was pulled open. Jon had told her earlier to seek him out there if she needed him.

“That is your choice. But don’t avoid him, your Grace. Seek out his company, even if it is not to tell him the truth.” Missandei replied. Her friend gave her a sad smile, but it looked like it hurt her disfigured eye and cheek.

Daenerys smiled back. Her advice was sound, as it normally was. A woman who did not desire politics or power. She’d likely refuse if Daenerys was ever to name her Hand. She was a friend. She was kind. Daenerys adored her. 

“Go to him, please. Seek out some happiness for today. Worry about tomorrow another time.” Missandei said as she unlinked their arms, nudging her to go towards the Godswood, to seek out Jon.

“I don’t want to leave you…” Daenerys replied.

“Don’t worry about me. I was going to spend the afternoon with Grey Worm anyway.” Missandei said sweetly. She looked again to the Godswood before walking away gracefully towards the main gate.

Daenerys turned tentatively, traipsing towards the large doors towards the Godswood. She was leaving fresh footprints in the snow behind her, and the childishness in Dany overjoyed at the sight.

Jon was in there, polishing his sword. Every few seconds, his head raised to admire the snowfall, before returning to care for Longclaw.

“The snow is very pretty, isn’t it?” Daenerys called out.

Jon’s face lit up at her voice, a smile spreading across his face as she walked nearer.

“Not as pretty as you.” He said in his gruff northern accent, a small smirk on his face at the cringe-worthy comment. “Not that I would have spotted you, you wear far too much white.”

“I was wearing black the other day, I’ll have you know.” Daenerys joked.

“Oh, how very bold of you!” He laughed. She laughed with him. She liked her dresses now, though she did miss the bright blue she used to wear in Slaver’s Bay. Blue was for Dothraki royalty and power, and the meaning was lost on the lords here.

“How goes the talks with the lords?” Daenerys asked. Jon had been attempting to liaison with them, to arrange the armies for when they eventually marched south. Some were enthusiastic, most were willing albeit reluctantly, and a portion was stalling and avoiding talking with Jon as much as they could.

“Not much better, I’m afraid. I attempted to talk with Lord Glover before breakfast and he waved me off, citing ‘better business to attend to’.” He replied, exasperated. Some of the lords were being more difficult than others.

They’ll bend eventually, she knew that. Things break if they don’t bend.

She hummed in response. He could update her with more specifics at the next war council, which they now held twice a week. Tyrion argued that they should move to Dragonstone now, but Daenerys wanted to stay in Winterfell. She couldn’t win over the rest of the lords if she was holding up in the South.

“You’d think our betrothal would placate more of them.” Daenerys finally said, seating herself on the rock next to her soon-to-be husband.

“It has, for the most part. Some always want more though. Davos told me that there whispers of making me king - but as far as he could tell they meant through usurping you, not through a claim.” He said.

That angered her. The Northern lords thought they were special, and she loathed them for it. What of the other six kingdoms? The Iron Islands and Dorne had been rallying for independence far longer than them. A couple of scruffy lords backing a Northern man would not automatically grant them the power to control the South. _ Idiots_.

She would hold off on the executions of treason, for now. No man would bow to someone they saw as another Aerys.

Jon placed a hand on hers, a smile on his face. He was thinking the same, no doubt. As long as Sansa kept her mouth shut, they could not force Jon into a crown he did not desire.

Daenerys looked up at the red leaves above them and sighed.

“They’ll want a huge wedding, with crowns and flowers and everything,” Jon said softly, noticing her wandering gaze.

She laughed. “Probably, once this blasted war is over. A wedding fit for a king.”

He grunted. “I’d marry you under this tree if I could.”

Dany flustered and blushed. They couldn’t, not yet. They had agreed with Tyrion and the others that they would wait, that they would let it be a grand event to boost a post-war population. Daenerys understood the politics, the necessity of it. That didn’t stop her desire for the alternative, though.

He placed a kiss on her forehead, hard and sweet. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” She replied.

If she were lucky, this war would be over quick enough that no one would even notice she was pregnant when she took Jon for her king. If she were unlucky, her deformed child would be born a bastard. She looked away from him at the thought, avoiding his gaze.

“I hope it’s soon. I could do with a party.” She finally said, hoping to lighten her mood.

“Me too. Though hopefully not as deadly as the weddings Jorah told me about.” He joked.

Daenerys laughed, albeit a bit uncomfortably. Drogo wasn’t something she had discussed in-depth with Jon. Especially not their wedding.

“Yes, well… I’m going into this one willingly.” She whispered, mostly to herself.

Jon realised the offence of his comment almost immediately, reaching out to grab her hand again. “I’m sorry, Dany, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s alright. Really. I’ve never really discussed it with anyone but Jorah. No one really knew but Jorah.” His death still pained her greatly, and he was frequently the subject of her bad dreams.

“Do you… want to talk about it? Get it off your chest?” Jon asked slowly. Daenerys smiled sadly at him, softened by his attempt to make her feel better. The poor man excelled at brooding on his own, not with others. 

Nevertheless, she obliged. She was keeping worse secrets.

“I… well…” Dany stammered. “The Dothraki is an odd culture, but it’s mine, because of that wedding. Without Drogo, I would not have my khalasar today.”

Jon stayed silent, letting her speak.

“I think I loved him...perhaps. The little girl I was certainly did. I felt overjoyed when I carried his child and I wept as he was taken from me.” She continued. “I learned his language and wore his clothes. I ate a horse heart and followed his gods.”

She had rarely spoken of it all, and it all flooded back to her now that she worried she was with child again.

“She died then… I think. The princess Daenerys. She died when she walked into that pyre.” Daenerys whispered.

“And the Mother of Dragons came out,” Jon whispered back.

She nodded. A mother, yes. To dragons. To slaves. But not to Rhaego. She had lost one son already, and she feared now that the Gods meant to take another. The Dragon Queen would have no children, the Gods had decided. Only her dragons, only her people.

Perhaps that was the way it was always meant to be.

Daenerys wiped the tears from her face, only just noticing they had fallen down her cheeks. Jon helped, brushing them away with his calloused thumbs. His touch was surprisingly soft, and it was kind. She had not expected such an emotional conversation, a conversation that she had never really had… with anyone. Daenerys had never felt so safe in her life.

Daenerys kissed him, her arms clasping around his broad shoulders as he knelt in front of her. His lips were warm, warmer than his freezing skin and the pale snow that fell around them.

_ Yes_, she thought, _ This is my husband. Not my sun-and-stars. This is my mount to love, just as Quaithe had said all those years ago_.

He kissed her back, harder and firmer, his hands grasping the back of her neck in the hope to keep their lips locked together. 

She had told this man on a ship that she could give him no children, but by the Gods, she desperately hoped that she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear D&D,
> 
> YOU DO NOT MENTION AND QUESTION DAENERYS' ABILITY TO HAVE CHILDREN MULTIPLE TIMES IN SEASON 7 ALONE IN ORDER TO DO NOTHING WITH IT - THAT'S NOT HOW FORESHADOWING WORKS!!!
> 
> With hatred and no thanks in the slightest,  
Becca


	35. Arya V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All halls lead somewhere. Where there is a way in, there is a way out. Fear cuts deeper than swords."

Night had fallen on Winterfell, the sky turning a mellow grey. Arya had kept on her task for the whole day, as she had done every day since she had told Sansa the truth.

Her sister had done nothing. Spoken to no one suspicious. Sent no ravens.

A part of Arya felt guilty for assuming her sister’s guilt. It was their lack of trust in her in the first place that excluded her from Jon’s secret. Were they treating her the same now?

_No_, Arya realised,_ it was caution_. Caution keeps people safe, sometimes.

Sansa was walking within the keep, her long navy blue dress floating behind her. Arya kept her distance, grateful for the many alcoves and corners Winterfell offered.

Sansa walked into her room, opening the door with one hand and untying a braid with another with a sigh. Arya wondered whether Sansa knew she was being watched.

The door shut with a soft slam, and behind the door, Arya could hear the rustling of her sister undressing and readying for bed. Her work was done for today, the soldier she had bribed would maintain his watch over her for the night, just as he had done well every night before. The man gave her a solemn nod, as Arya peered around the corner at him.

Arya leaned on one of the walls of a T-hallway, the way in front of her leading towards the rest of the rooms. At that far end, Arya spotted a man in a grey cloak, speaking quietly with someone through a door slightly cracked open. She could not tell whose door from where she stood.

When the man started walking towards her, she jumped into a nearby alcove.

He glided past her, his cloak fluttering behind with the speed of his steps. It was then Arya noticed the flash of a golden hilt, a dagger strapped to his side.

Her eyes narrowed, confused. The man was clad in the dress of a commoner, of a refugee who had flowed into the castle in the aftermath of the battle. His dagger was out of place.

Arya followed him, her steps light and soft on the cold stone as the man hurried towards the exit and to the courtyard. The Northern soldiers positioned around the hallways seemed to pay him no mind as he walked by them.

When he burst out the keep, more cloaked refugees sat in the yard. They would often stay inside for supper, and flee back outside to sleep next to Daenerys’ armies in the night.

The man stopped at a pillar that holds up one of the balconies and spoke to an older man. Lord Glover, Arya recognised. The gruff man nodded and fled back inside the keep quickly.

Arya’s hands shake, her eyes strained as they flicker between the leaving man and the cloaked one. She cannot keep track of them both.

So, she picks the cloaked one.

He stomped through the snow, the cloaked figures sat on the benches and ground around him nodding as he walked by. Arya’s heart beat faster, fear filling her lungs.

He passed a note to a man walking by him, a man walking straight towards him. Another Northern man… Roger Ryswell, she thinks, the Lord of the Rills’ son. He did not notice her as he walked by, his gaze fixed on the entrance to the castle behind her.

Arya walked faster. The man in front of her left the main castle walls, emerging into the area inhabited by the Targaryen forces. He weaved through tents and spear stands, attempting to shake her off. He disappeared around a fenced corner after a minute.

He must have noticed her, she realised.

As she approached the corner, intent on leaning around it, the man stood right in front of her. He grabbed her throat and threw her against the fence with a crash.

He stood miles above her, his hood now fallen from his head, revealing long blonde hair and steel grey eyes. His face was practically a snarl as he pulled her throat back and then forward once again.

Arya grabbed her dagger and plunged it into his thigh, causing him to let go of her neck and clutch his leg in pain. His anguish turned to anger, however, as he grabbed his blade in turn and slashed at her. She dodged him easily, his lunge causing him to collapse to his knees with the effort.

She kicked the blade from his right hand and shoved him against the fence with all her strength. She drove her dagger straight through his pale hand and into the wood behind him, causing bright red blood to pour and the man to groan. 

“Ah! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” The man yelled.

Arya said nothing. She was confused and afraid. She wanted to know what this man was doing. 

She pressed on his injured leg with her foot, a yell ripping from his throat as she did. He tried to pry the dagger from his penetrated hand, but she grabbed it and smacked it away.

“Talk,” Arya said bluntly. 

The man glared at her. “I talk for my client only. You’re not paying me, little Westerosi bitch.”

She snatched his discarded blade from the snowy ground and pressed it against his exposed throat. “I will pay you with steel. Talk.”

The man trembled slightly, his eyes wide at the young girl’s boldness with the weapon. But he said nothing, overcoming his initial fear to stare at her defiantly.

Arya looked at him curiously, amazed by his willingness to get hurt further. She grasped the blade lodged in his hand and twisted. He screamed in agony.

_ Good _ , Arya thought, _ explain. _

“S-St-Stop! Please! Stop!” He yelled. Arya paused. “It’s already started!”

She pressed again. “What’s started!?”

The man kept his composure as well as he could, but his eyes threatened tears and his lips were tight. His eyes were that of a man who knew he faced his death.

“There’s no point. One scrawny little girl cannot stop the might of my Golden Company.” The man declared proudly. Arya’s grasp on the dagger faltered for a moment, afraid. “Killing me will do nothing, the wheel is already in motion!”

“EXPLAIN! STOP IT!” Arya screamed in her confusion. She didn’t understand.

The man chucked at her anger, his voice low and deep.

“What’s the phrase…" The man said softly, a smile on his face so sinister Arya thought she would retch. "...the Lannisters send their regards.” 

Arya stopped, unable to move, frozen with fear. Every Northerner knew those words, knew what it had meant. The tales out of the Twins had been horrifying. Arya had seen the carnage outside for herself.

The man laughed, and Arya removed the dagger from his hand with a yank and plunged it straight into his throat in anger. Blood poured from his neck, the splatters of the attack spreading across both their faces.

Screams in the distance.

It was only when the golden man’s head collapsed to the floor that Arya knew she needed to move.

_ No, no, no, no, no!  _ Her family was in there. Jon was in there! Gendry and Bran and Dany and Sansa! Everyone else!

Arya clambered away from the corpse of the man and sprinted into the keep. As she ran, the refugees outside the walls discarded their cloaks in the snow and began their attack of the armies.

The night wasn’t dark anymore. The tents and the walls were alight.

Winterfell was burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
> 
> Just to clarify the next POV is happening concurrently, in case it causes confusion.


	36. Jon VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A man who fears losing has already lost."

Jon sat in his armchair, staring mindlessly into the lit fireplace in front of him. He leaned back, with his feet spread out far in front of him. Every once in a while, he would prod the fire with the iron rod to make sure it still burned. The air was warm on his skin, a comfort within the cold walls of Winterfell, of home.

Ghost lay at his feet, his head resting on Jon’s boot as he slumbered. Jon wanted to lean down and stroke his boy, if not for a bit of comfort, but did not wish to wake the poor wolf. He had been mostly uninjured by the battle, having been instructed to stay within the keep, but an animal still knows what horror looks like. Since then, Ghost had become increasingly more protective of him, as well as Daenerys.

She had left him almost an hour ago. She hadn't been feeling very well and had retreated to seek the company of Missandei. Jon didn’t blame her. The past few weeks had been hard and were no doubt taking their toll.

The weeks were certainly taking a toll on him.

Since he had arrived home, he had discovered Ned Stark wasn’t his father, planned to marry the most powerful woman in Westeros to become a consort and killed a thousands-year-old ice monster. He had accomplished more in several weeks than he had all his life. Jon could have laughed at the thought.

But that was it, he supposed. Before, he had been constrained by his bastard status, constrained by his vows to the Night’s Watch. He would have never held lands or titles or married a Queen. But he wasn’t a bastard anymore, never had been, not truly. Ned Stark had always said Jon was of his blood, and though it was not the whole truth, it was not wrong. He was trueborn. Trueborn Targaryen, trueborn  _ Stark _ .

Jon was elated at the thought, and the idea of dancing on Catelyn’s Stark bitter grave sprung to mind, if only in revenge for her cold treatment of him. He shook it away as quickly as it appeared. It did no good to speak ill of the dead, and Lady Stark had no grave.

Jon leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling with a sigh. He wanted to sleep, but couldn’t. The past few nights he had been plagued by nightmares. Always, they were horrible. Terrible images of burning cities and weeping women, of fanged monsters with sharpened claws. Once, the nightmares had made him kill Daenerys, and he had woken up in such a cry that the guards had hurried into the room in their fright.

It was all a bit too much, sometimes. The truth. Life was simpler for him when he was just a bastard at the Wall. But life was different, things were different. The arrogant young boy who joined the Night’s Watch for a dream would not have survived the wars of today, he told himself. The boy had been killed.

Ghost whined, slowly and fearfully as he woke from his slumber. The white wolf dragged himself to the door, his teeth beginning to bare in a snarl at the silence behind it. Jon turned slowly in his chair, wary of his wolf’s behaviour. When Ghost howled, Jon stood in an instant.

Something was wrong.

A scream behind the door, the thud of a man crashing to the floor. The door burst open and two bulky men flooded in with their weapons drawn.

Longclaw was next to the bed, feet away from him. He would be cut into pieces before he could lunge towards his weapon. Jon looked around him, as quick as he could, and instead grabbed the iron prod and made to defend himself.

One lunged, axe in hand, but Jon’s poker was still fire-hot and scalded the large man as it hit the skin of his hands. He stumbled back, shocked by the pain, but did not drop his weapon.

The other man charged forward with his longsword, slashing as fast as he could while Jon dodged and backed away. Finally, the man raised his sword high above him, and Jon had no choice but to use the rod to block. He grabbed it with both ends, blistering the skin on his left hand as he blocked the second man’s lethal blow.

Jon kicked him in the groin, causing him to fall to his knees. Jon grabbed the man’s gritty hair and smacked him repeatedly against the bedpost. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Until the man’s face was nothing but blood.

The other man, the one with the axe, lay dead on the floor. Ghost had ripped out his throat already.

Jon’s breathing was erratic and the panic set in as he looked at the corpses on his bedroom floor. Ghost’s muzzle was drenched in blood and quickly came to heel next to Jon with a whine.

Davos arrived in the doorway, his bloodied weapon drawn as well. As soon as he saw Jon, he sighed in relief.

“Jon! Thank the Gods you’re alright!” He shouted.

Jon stumbled towards him, snatching Longclaw from the side of the bed and pushing past Davos and into the corridor. It was filled with bodies as well.

“I-I don’t know what’s happening, Jon.” Davos stammered. “These men… Jon, these are Northern men.”

Jon didn’t know what was happening either.

Shouts started outside, the sound of swords clashing pouring in from the windows. All of Winterfell was under attack, but by the sight of the corridor’s guards on the floor, from within.

“Where’s Dany?” Jon whispered. More men spilt into the corridor, Gendry and Tormund among them, both dressed in their nightclothes. They too were covered in blood.

“What the fuck is happening?!” Tormund yelled.

“Where’s Dany!?” Jon sprinted down the hall and around the corner, towards where Daenerys had been staying.

The door was wide open, and a Dothraki guard lay against the wall next to it, a gut wound staining his leathers red. Jon remembered his name, Qhono, he thinks.

Daenerys was nowhere to be found. Jon couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. She was gone, she was gone, she was gone. Jon paced around, only for a few seconds, before Davos grabbed him quickly by the shoulders.

“We’ll find her… We’ll find her! Let’s go!” Davos whispered. Jon was frantic. If Daenerys was dead because of the treachery of his own damn men, he would rend his flesh in his grief.

More fighting around the corner, more screams and shouts and clashing of blades. Jon could not stop the image of a screaming Daenerys invading his mind. He had to protect her, he had to!

“Go… Go find my siblings, go protect them!” Jon shouted to the other men standing a few feet away. “File out! Find the Queen!”

Jon broke out into a sprint down the hall. His heart raced and pumped so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest and onto the cold and already bloodied floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I feel like I need to write something in the chapter notes but I have zero to say to this one except: 
> 
> 1) oof  
2) Jon Snow needs a hug


	37. Sansa V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Life is not a song, sweetling. Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow."

Sansa had been woken by the sound of screams.

One of the servant ladies had attempted to warn her of the men, but luckily she had locked her room. Sansa opened the door to find the woman dead on the floor.

One of the men who had killed the poor woman slashed at Sansa’s face when she opened the door, cutting across her lip and making it seep red. Sansa had been lucky, for the Hound had bashed the man’s head in before she even had a chance to scream.

Others had fled inside after the Hound, Theon and Tyrion among them. Sansa almost laughed at the sight of the three men, all who had helped her in some way, cowering inside her childhood bedroom.

Except, Sansa was cowering as well. She sat behind the bed, tears streaming down her face as she could do nothing but hide. Sometimes the screaming would get louder. Sometimes you would hear a crash and a thud and the rattle of armour colliding with the floor.

Was it Blackwater all over again?  _ No, I never heard the screaming _ , Sansa thought,  _ I never saw the wildfire _ . Here she was, trembling in her nightgown, in her own home.

Sansa would murder whatever man dared to destroy her home.

Tyrion attempted to comfort her, but Sansa refused to listen. How could she listen to jokes and witty comments when Winterfell was burning? When Winterfell was dying?

Theon wasn’t much better than her. He had entered the room to defend her as well, but his hands had shaken so much his blade had fallen from his hands and onto the cold floor. Sandor was the only one actually defending the door. All of her furniture was piled against it, her pretty vanity, an armchair, the side table. Sansa’s entire room had been upended in an attempt the save their lives.

The blood from her lip was trickling down her chin and her neck, but she ignored it. She didn't want her own blood on her hands just yet. She turned to Theon, taking his hand in her own. The other day, he had told her of his attempt to rescue Yara, of how he had defended himself against an ambush. But this wasn’t the same. Theon wasn’t Theon in Winterfell anymore. Too much had happened within these walls for him. When she saw tears fall from his eyes, she held him, their backs to her large wooden bed.

She was going to die, she knew it. She was afraid of it. Winterfell would burn again and the Starks slaughtered. Sansa couldn’t hold back her tears at the thought. She had fought and survived so many times. Suffered so many times, yet lived to tell the tale. Her luck had to run out eventually.

“I don’t want to die like this, Sansa,” Theon whispered through his sobs.

Sansa felt bad for him. Sansa agreed with him. 

Tyrion sat closer to them, his hands shaking as well. A group of men approached the door, shouting obscenities and hacking at the wood in hopes they could cleave the door down. 

“Cersei doesn’t want everyone. She doesn’t want a battle. Only the heads of the most important people.” Tyrion said, though it did not make Sansa feel at all better.

“Then why are they killing all the smallfolk as well!?” Theon cried. “Why Sansa?!”

Sansa sighed and rolled her eyes. “She probably still thinks I killed Joffrey.”

“No. She knows it was Olenna. Jaime told her.” Tyrion interrupted, his eyes flashing back and forth between them and the hammering door.

Sandor turned where he stood, his weapon drawn and ready to strike should the attacking men succeed. “Well then, she’s clearly just fucking insane!”

Tyrion said nothing, but his face was solemn. His eyes though, were afraid. More afraid than Sansa had ever seen.

Sansa was afraid too.

Her cheeks were wet, and sobs wracked her chest as the hammering got louder and louder and faster and faster.  _ Was this how mother had felt? _ She wondered.  _ When the whole room turned on her at the Twins? _

No, her lady mother had defended herself, made a last stand. That’s what everyone had said. She had slit Walder Frey’s young wife’s throat. But how long had her mother lived after that? A minute? Less?

Sansa continued to tremble and weep, just as she had done in the crypts. But this time it was not the dead who sought their blood, but the living.

She wished she could be brave. She wished she knew how to wield a dagger or a sword, like Arya or Brienne. Just well enough to keep herself from harm.

But a blade hadn’t saved Catelyn Stark, had it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A scared young woman, attacked in the very home she sought to defend from Daenerys. Except, it wasn't Daenerys - was it?
> 
> A turning point.


	38. Arya VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The camp had become a battlefield. No, a butcher's den."

Arya ran through the carnage, bashing into horrified smallfolk and servants who stumbled as they tried to run from it all. When they didn’t flee fast enough, brutish men, clad in iron or gold, would cut them down.

It smelled of smoke and blood, and though the castle itself wasn’t on fire, Winterfell was once again surrounded by a wall of it, the tents of their armies flickering in the cold night.

Arya didn’t know where to go, where to look.

Too many men near the door, too many men at the gate. Golden daggers and Northern swords. Bodies on the ground. People running. People screaming.

Arya couldn’t breathe.

A black dragon swooped low overhead, its roar so loud it shook the very earth. Any man stupid enough to stand on the roof to shoot arrows was swiftly grabbed by the black dread’s pincer claws. The dragons sounded as if they were in pain.

_ Daenerys _ .

Jon had a blade. Jon had Ghost and Longclaw. But what did Daenerys have? A stupid little blade that Arya had not yet even taught her how to wield?

Arya pushed further in, hiding between terrified horses and fallen fences. No man noticed her, distracted either by their bloodlust, or their fear. The killers didn’t stop. They slaughtered men and women. Noble and venal. Arya supposed none of it mattered when your blood was on the floor.

A flash of silver hair.

Arya saw her, if only for a second or two. She was surrounded by large men, but only one of them was armoured. She was being dragged into the crypts at the far side of the courtyard, looking so little compared to the soldiers. Daenerys was only a few years older than her, she remembered. Arya took a step towards the crypts, trying her best to dodge the slaughter around her.

She was moving too slowly. Two steps forward, one stumble back. Dodge two, but then pushed down by another.

Arya was no soldier, no knight. She was not Brienne of Tarth or the warrior Queen Visenya. Arya didn’t care. That was her brother’s wife, officially or not, and she could not leave her to die.

_ The pack survives, doesn’t it? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T WORRY I AM GONNA STOP LEAVING YOU IN SUSPENSE AFTER THIS ONE.
> 
> Just a short Arya moment, as I felt it was important considering she had witnessed the outside carnage of the Red Wedding. I felt like it was important to show how, despite the fact Arya and Sansa experienced their horrors differently (one in the wild world, and the other amongst a game of politics) and therefore have developed different skills, they still endure the same horrors.


	39. Daenerys IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The little scribe with big golden eyes was wise beyond her years. She is brave as well. She had to be, to survive the life she's lived."

The crypts were dark and cold. Every sound, every movement, echoed down the halls and hit the statues of a thousand years worth of Starks. Everything echoed, but the statues only gave sweet silence in return. If Daenerys had not been so terrified, she would have stopped and looked in awe at the stone carvings, of the large direwolves and rusted longswords. A man’s fist gripped on her long hair so hard and tight that he was beginning to rip it out from the root, his fingers interlaced in her braids like an iron vice. She had attempted to run from them, but when Dany had realised they had meant ill she could not back away fast enough. She had been walking around the yard with Missandei again, away from prying eyes, talking more about her plans to tell Jon about their baby. 

Missandei was being dragged behind her, also by her hair. The poor woman was yelping in pain, the men pulling them along as if they were animals. She had told Missandei to run, to flee without her, but she didn’t. She wouldn’t, she had said. Daenerys did not know how far into the crypts they were. She did not know whose statues they walked past. This was not her place, she knew that much. None of them were meant to be in here. The man holding her hair smacked her straight into a stone wall, letting go of her hair as she collapsed to the floor in agony. She clumsily clutched her face as blood trickled from an open wound on her forehead.

“This is far enough.” One man ordered, not the one who had carried her into the dark. He was taller than the others, better dressed but lightly armoured. Dany’s vision swirled for a few moments, but she swore she recognised his voice from the many meetings with the Northern lords.

Missandei was treated the same, the smack against one of the statues reopening the flesh on her cheek once again. Another man laughed at the sight. There were four, Daenerys realised, but one man hung back from the rest, his face a shadow in the darkness.

“What shall we do with you, eh?” The fat one bellowed. Daenerys wanted to punch him.

The two at the front chuckled, leering over her as she brought herself to her knees in front of them. One of them smacked her, hard across the face, sending her to the cold floor once again.

“Is this necessary?” The one at the back asked, exasperated, as if he was a parent watching over children. He was different from the others. Essosi, if she could tell by his accent. “This wasn’t what we agreed.”

“You can take her head back to _ your _ bitch _ after _ we’re done!” The larger man declared.

He knelt down in front of her and smiled. His teeth were rotten and garish, and his beard was as grey as the banner of the Starks. It was Lord Glover, she realised. Behind him, Missandei attempted to pick herself up to rest on her shredded elbows, only to be kicked in the gut by one of Glover’s henchmen. She winced at the sight of her friend in pain.

Daenerys pushed herself up on her arms again, her pretty white dress now completely ruined by mud and dust and blood so that it practically looked black. In her anger, she spat at the Lord’s feet in defiance. He smacked her again, and this time, she heard her sons wail up above. They were looking for her, looking for their mother and her baby. Daenerys brought a hand to her stomach instinctively. She would have spat at the traitor again, but she did not wish for her baby to be hurt by her own stupidity.

“Whore!” One of them shouted. “Madwoman!”

_ If I get out of here, I’ll show you a fucking madwoman_. If, being the all-important word, of course. She had to stall if she wanted to live, she knew that. Her dragons could not save her underground.

“Why? Explain yourself, Lord Glover! Explain this treachery!” She yelled back.

He stood back up and laughed. “Treachery? I am loyal to the North, and the North alone! This is your own fault, Targaryen. You should have stayed at home.”

“If she’d stayed at home, the Night King would have killed you all!” Missandei called behind her. The comment earned her a punch, but Missandei shook it off, as bravely as she could. Her loyal friend. She should have run when she told her to.

The man at the back scoffed at the Northerner’s words and crossed his arms impatiently. “It’s easier for these Northern idiots to get rid of you first, Dragon Queen. They think they’ll beat Queen Cersei after.”

“Shut the fuck up, sellsword!” Glover bellowed and raised his fist as if to hit him. He didn’t.

“We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark!” Another yelled proudly.

The others cheered and laughed. They probably thought this a victory. The man at the back threw up his arms, already tired of the conversation. Daenerys was barely processing it all. They had made a deal? With Cersei Lannister? Jon had told her of Northern honour, of Northern honesty. Where was it now? Daenerys was furious. Seething. Her anger boiled her blood so hot that it could have melted the stone castles of the traitors before her.

“So… Do we get to have her? We might as well!” The one on the left chuckled, his eyes predatory. He was younger than the others, his clothes less exquisite and his hair greasy. Daenerys’ breath hitched in her throat in fear. If she was going to die, at least make it quick.

“Fuck off, Roger. Her cunt probably has dragon teeth anyway.” The fatter one replied.

“What about the other one?” Roger whispered. Missandei looked to him, still groaning from her wounds.

“Let her run and scream. She’ll get killed when she runs outside anyway. Let them take a while to find the Dragon Queen, though...” Lord Glover stalked forward, weapon in hand.

“Lord Glover, stop!” Daenerys yelled, raising her dainty hand to halt him. _ I don’t want to die_.

"You don’t command us, bitch!” One yelled back, and smacked her again straight across the face, his ragged and dirty nails cutting near her eye.

“Your dragons won’t save you, not here. Not so invincible now, are you?” Glover laughed before his posture straightened and he held his head high. “With this blade, I free the North!”

He raised his steel sword. The torchlight bounced off of it, flickering light straight into her eyes. As she looked down to avoid it, she remembered her own blade hiding in her boot, the one Arya had given her earlier in the day. But she could not grab it now, for it was too late. She would have laughed at her forgetfulness if she had had the time.

_ You will never bear a living child_, she thought._ Oh, how right that damned witch was._

“No!” Missandei screamed.

Missandei scrambled from the floor and launched herself at the lord, throwing what little weight she had straight into him and towards the stone statue of a woman. He stumbled sideways and onto his back, away from them both and dropping his blade. One of the others pounced and pulled her off of him, and before Daenerys could do so much as grab her dagger to defend them both, Missandei’s throat was torn open by cold steel.

Silence. Missandei stood for a second, for as long as she could, as all the life left her and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She collapsed to the cold floor with a thud as Daenerys watched in horror.

Lord Glover had yet to recover, and Daenerys shrieked in her grief. She clambered on top of him like a beast and thrust the little blade into his soft flesh. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. More times than she could care to count. Behind her, the other men fell at the blade of a small dark figure running towards them, their lives extinguished as quick as lightning. Daenerys didn’t care. She kept stabbing. The old man attempted to claw at her, to throw her off of him, but she did not stop. She didn’t stop even after his eyes had gone blank and his arms had fallen to his sides.

“Daenerys!” Arya shouted. “Daenerys! Stop!”

Daenerys didn’t want to stop. How many of her men would she find dead outside? How many of her friends? Was Jon even alive? Would her child even have a father? All of this death, all of this blood for the dream of a Northern crown. When Dany lifted the small blade again, the girl pried the dagger from her bloodied hands, shoving it into her belt. She grabbed Dany’s arms, but the silver-haired woman smacked her away, wrestling from her hold as forcefully as she could. She crawled over to where Missandei’s body lay on the cold stone. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth slack. Death wasn’t peaceful, no matter what men said. Missandei wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t dreaming. Not anymore. Daenerys grabbed the body of her friend and hugged it close, rocking back and forth as she sobbed and cried, the blood on Missandei’s chest staining the bottom of Daenerys’ silver hair red.

_ Never betray me_, she had demanded of the kind woman once.

And she never did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *points to 'not an everybody lives AU' tag*  
I AM VERY SORRY!  
(pls don't shout at me)
> 
> D&D RANT:  
I am very much in the camp that D&D did Missandei dirty (did a lot of people dirty). Obviously, it was Game of Thrones, and survival was not guaranteed. But, Missandei's death in the show, executed for no strategic purpose on Cersei's part and even worse, IN CHAINS, infuriated me greatly. By all means, kill a character if it makes sense, if it is needed to spur on the story or character development - but do no destroy the essence of the character you kill in the process.  
Missandei did not deserve to die in shackles. This was a character who had spent her life a slave, whose only worth to the masters was her intelligence. But when she became a free woman, she was worth so much more than that - she was kind and brave and loyal. THAT, is how Missandei should have died. The strong and unwavering and FREE friend. Missandei would have never abandoned Daenerys, and in her final moments had the power and the free will to save those dearest to her, even if at the cost of her own life.  
I cherish Missandei and Dany's friendship deeply (both in the books and show), and while this tragic end to their friendship is not my ideal, I am writing this with as little bias as possible and in a way it could be considered an alternate S8.  
For me, what better way for such a brave and loyal woman to go, than to go in the defence of her greatest friend.
> 
> Sorry for the essay haha - a lot of pent up rage regarding Missandei's handling in the last season.  
\----------------  
As for the story:  
FUCK THE NORTH (I mean, not the entire North, but certainly a decent portion of it)
> 
> Next chapter likely up tomorrow, just need to edit it.


	40. Jon VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Even now, he was a Stark of Winterfell, and his grief and rage froze hard inside him."

It had not taken long for the mutiny to collapse in on itself. The Golden Company, when they were not slaughtered, had fled the castle in droves at the sight of Drogon and Rhaegal. After that, the Northern traitors were quickly overwhelmed and captured or killed. In retrospect, the attempt had been almost pathetic - a group of Northern noble sons thought they could capture and hold Winterfell on their own. Despite that, Jon hadn’t even managed to get out of the main keep during it all. He had tried and tried, cutting and slashing at any man who dared get in his way, but there were too many, and he had not been quick enough.

When Jon finally broke into the early morning dawn, he was greeted with corpses and smoke. The sky had begun to turn a dull grey, illuminating the faces of the bodies in the dirt. A couple of the men beside him gagged and retched at the sight of dozens of men, women and children dead at their feet. Jon clenched his jaw as he walked past them, terrified of glimpsing silver hair amongst the corpses. He dared not disturb them, dared not move them in his search for Daenerys.

Jon could not even begin to comprehend the damage wrought on Winterfell, on his home. If he didn’t know any better, you could have said this was the damage of the battle with the dead. But it wasn’t. This was a battle, no, a  _ massacre _ by the living. He wanted to scream, to slash and rage and bring hell down upon those who dared to hurt him and his family.

His rage was interrupted when Daenerys stumbled out of the crypts, covered with dried blood - on her dress, on her hands, her face and even her hair. She looked like a dead woman walking. Jon ran over to her in a panic, crashing into her in his relief and grabbing her to make sure she was alright, unhurt.

“Dany! Dany, thank the Gods, Dany!” Jon cried, caressing her face as his heart rejoiced at seeing her alive.

She stared past him blankly.

“Dany?” Jon questioned, afraid.

She said nothing. Her hands did not reach out to hold him, and neither did her lips curl in a smile at the sight of her lover. Jon moved his hands from her face and down to her shoulders and saw that the red stains on her face were interrupted only by lines of tears.

Arya walked slowly towards them, and Jon noticed the two daggers on her belt. What had happened in the crypts? Arya’s face was solemn, her eyes red as if she, too, had been crying. Jon glanced back to Daenerys then, who was silently observing the bloody aftermath around them.

A dragon wailed overheard, dashing low above the castle. Others were making their way outside, now that it was somewhat safe, and they were quickly joined by Tyrion and Varys, who looked at Daenerys’ bloodied form in horror.

“Your Grace? By the Seven… what happened?!” Tyrion said, shocked. Beside him, Varys said not a word, and instead crossed his arms and bowed to his Queen.

Daenerys ignored them and turned her head to look Jon straight in the eyes. They were wild, almost, and bloodshot. They were wet, but no tears fell.

“I want them dead.” She said, simply and clearly. Her voice was hoarse, and though her manner was cold, her face betrayed nothing but pain.

Tyrion and Varys seemed to shift uncomfortably at Daenerys’ command, but Jon simply squeezed her shoulders in reply. Grey Worm entered the main castle then, himself bloodied and injured. His eyes desperately sought Daenerys and Missandei, and when he spotted one of them, he ran. Arya stood in Daenerys’ way, stopping him from speaking to her.

It was then Jon realised. She’d been with Missandei. Grey Worm glanced back and forth between the young Stark and his Queen, and when Arya finally looked to the crypts, the man sprinted towards it.

Jon had never heard a man cry out in such pain.

Daenerys flinched at the sound, finally breaking her eye contact with Jon. She looked desperately to the sky, looking for her sons. When Drogon swooped low again, she stepped away from Jon.

“I-I...I want- I n-need…” She whispered, but her soft voice was full of grief and full of quiet rage.

“Your Grace, come inside. We will look after you.” Tyrion replied, his hands reaching out to her. She stepped back again and stumbled as she turned towards the gates.

Jon didn’t want her to go, but she pulled away anyway to seek out her sons. They all watched her leave in silence, though Davos followed the young Queen to make sure she got to her dragons unharmed.

“I...don't know what to say,” Tyrion said tentatively, breaking the silence. He seemed largely unharmed, though his eyes betrayed his fear. Of what, Jon did not know.

“Sansa and Bran?” Jon asked quickly.

“Safe, both of them. Sansa is lightly injured but will be fine. Jaime informed me Bran is fine as well.” Tyrion replied.

Jon sighed in relief. He had been so worried for Daenerys that he had shoved Sansa and Bran from his thoughts and felt awful for it. But they were fine, the Starks were fine.

Jon turned to Arya, a lord talking to a vassal, rather than a brother to a sister. “Anything I should know?”

“There was a man, I followed him and he informed me this was Cersei’s doing.” Arya’s back straightened as she spoke.

“And the Northerners…” Tyrion said tentatively as Lord Glover’s hulking corpse was dragged out of the Stark family crypts by Unsullied in shredded armour.

“Yes, and the Northerners,” Arya replied. “But… I’ve been following Sansa round the clock. I don’t think this was her, Jon. She’s done nothing of suspicion. The man, he was a commander, I think. He passed something to Lord Glover and Roger Ryswell, but nothing to Sansa. She was in her room.”

“The commander? That must have been Harry Strickland - was he blonde?” Tyrion asked quickly. Arya nodded in reply, before glancing over to the gate curiously.

Jon didn’t know what had happened, wasn’t sure who was to blame, who to trust. On one hand, Sansa sought Daenerys’ removal from the North, but on the other, would never cooperate with Cersei Lannister to do so. Cersei hated Sansa as well. But if it was not Sansa, then who? Jon’s hands clenched and unclenched, mulling his options, everything swirling in his tired mind.

“Lock this castle down. No one enters, no one leaves.” Jon commanded. Arya nodded and dispersed. Tyrion and Varys took a second but walked away as well soon after.

Jon moved to turn around and noticed something swinging from the balcony nearby, the balcony where Ned Stark had often stood. He moved closer to it.

Lady Lyanna Mormont swung gently in the morning breeze, a rope around her neck. She was in her nightgown. When he blinked, Jon saw Olly instead, bloated and blue, his hands tied behind his back. When he blinked again, he was gone.

Jon could have thrown up at the sight of the noble lady. She was not Olly, she was not a traitor. She had heeded Jon’s call to battle the Boltons, and accepted Jon’s demand that she send House Mormont South for Daenerys, if not with some hesitation. Yet here she was, hung from the wooden beams of her own lord’s castle, by her own countrymen. Jon was overcome with rage as he stared at the little girl’s body. A little girl, that’s what she was - no matter how much Lyanna did not think it so.

Gendry stomped behind him, uncomfortable as well at the sight of the girl.

“We have prisoners, Jon. Some are trying to free themselves from their bonds, but the Unsullied have them well-guarded.” Gendry said quickly. “Shall I move them?”

Jon paused. He did not look away from the hanging lady. His home, ransacked, his people murdered - cut down, crushed and hung. What if this was Daenerys? Or Arya? Or Sansa? What if it was his own little girl, softly swinging above him?

_ I want them dead _ , Dany had said. Jon wanted them dead too. 

“How many?” Jon asked coldly.

“About three groups of twenty or so, I think,” Gendry replied.

Jon made his decision as he stared hopelessly at Lyanna Mormont’s blue face. “If the man identifies himself as Golden Company, hang him. If the man pledges himself to Lord Glover’s cause, hang him. If the man refuses to do either or calls himself a lookout… hang him last.”

Gendry’s eyes widened at Jon’s words. “As you wish.”

Jon turned to him then, his eyes hard as steel. “I don’t wish it, Gendry. Justice demands it.”

The blacksmith nodded tentatively and scurried away. Jon ordered the men nearby to cut the little lady down. As they did, Jon wept silent tears of grief and rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not worry! I have specifically tagged this fic "Dany isn't a mad queen" - you know why? BECAUSE BEING A GRIEVING WOMAN NAMED TARGARYEN DOES NOT MAKE YOU CLINICALLY INSANE. I hope that comes across in the very different ways I write Cersei and Dany - (you already have ur mad queen lads!)
> 
> What I hope this also clarifies, is that not all Northerners were in on this horrible mutiny. Poor Lyanna. Was she a bit of a bold one? Yes. But Lyanna Mormont encapsulated a lot of the Northern personality - fiercely loyal and brave. A shame that some of the North have failed at this first hurdle. Honourable Northerners marched down with Robb Stark but did not march back up.
> 
> Speaking of mutiny, I don't really have 'a name' for this event and have planned to just call it 'the mutiny' or the massacre at Winterfell. If anyone has any funky in-universe names to use for it - do share!


	41. Daenerys X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?"

Daenerys had stayed atop of Drogon for the whole morning, refusing to return to the ground. The air had been biting cold and frozen her to the bone, burning her so that she could ignore the grief she was drowning it. It was only when her eyes began to slide shut in fatigue that she finally dismounted him and retreated back to the keep.

She let no one stop her as she walked, still caked in blood and dirt. Not Davos, not Gendry, nor Grey Worm or Varys. She needed to be alone, and she needed to be alone _now_.

She burst into her room, desperately clawing at her bloodied dress. She wanted Missandei’s blood off of her, Lord Glover’s blood off of her. Arya had made her change after the battle, she remembered. She knew she needed to do it now.

It peeled off with effort, parts of the dress cracked and hard from the sheer amount of blood on it. When finally, she was rid of her clothes, she threw her previously pretty white coat onto the fireplace and watched blankly as it was devoured by flame.

She grabbed a gown, a simple black one that hung on the back of her door, and wrapped herself in it as best she could. It was not as warm as her coat - but neither did it bear the scars of what had occurred during the night. She sat back down on the floor in front of the fire. The floor was cold and uncomfortable, but Daenerys found she did not mind.

Her hair was stained red as well, but Daenerys had neither the energy nor care to wash it clean, instead throwing it behind her shoulders so she could no longer see her bloodied and tangled braids.

It was then, Daenerys finally burst out crying.

Missandei. Sweet and lovely Missandei. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was her friend standing as the blood streamed from her neck and down her pretty dress.

Daenerys had seen death before. She had seen men burn and starve and bleed. Most of them had deserved it. But Missandei? Did Missandei deserve such a cruel end? It was a death reserved for kings and soldiers. Missandei of Naath deserved to die in her bed, surrounded by those she loved, having lived her life as fully and kindly as she could have.

But few things in life were fair.

She hadn’t even checked on Grey Worm, too wrapped up in her own spiralling grief, and felt awful for it. His scream had cut through her before, and she decided she never wanted to hear such a scream again.

Cersei Lannister and some Northern fools had torn apart her lover’s home, murdered his people and her own. Butchered her friends. She wanted them dead. Every man involved, every Golden Company soldier and Cersei lapdog. Every northern fool and petty son. Was Lord Glover the only leader? Daenerys didn’t know.

_ What if it was Sansa? Or Arya? Or Bran? Oh gods, what if it was Jon? _

She didn’t know what to think, her head so clouded and lightheaded her thoughts became jumbled and incoherent.

Someone knocked softly on her door.

Tyrion walked in, as slowly as he could, as if he were approaching a dragon. Daenerys looked at him over her shoulder, not willing to turn around and talk politics with him. Not right now.

“My Queen… do you need anything?” He asked quietly.

_ Do I need anything? What a stupid question _ . She needed Missandei. She wanted her kind smile and comforting hands, her soft words and sound advice.

When she said nothing, he spoke again. “I’m very sorry, your Grace. Missandei was wonderful. She didn’t deserve that.”

“No!” Daenerys snapped, her voice hoarse. “She didn’t deserve it at all.”

He stepped closer, sitting down next to her on the floor.

“She died for me. I promised I would protect her, and she died.” Daenerys sobbed, clutching her knees and resting her head on them. She had promised so many that she would save them from harm, and everywhere she went, they would fall. How could she hope to protect seven kingdoms when she couldn’t even protect her closest friend?

“Don’t blame yourself, please.” He whispered back.

“How can I not, Tyrion?” She replied, turning to look at him, her eyes red and sore. “I-I promised her!”

Tyrion shushed her as she began weeping again, his hand resting over her own.

“It’s in your nature, mine as well, to protect the ones we love. To protect our families and our friends. And when we fail? We feel awful for it. And often, we fail again.” Tyrion said. “There is no shame in that. It is a lesson.”

“A lesson?” Daenerys asked softly.

  
“Yes, a lesson. That you must try harder next time.” Tyrion replied. Daenerys’ head fell back onto her knees. He was right, she thought. She had to be better than this. She had to protect Jon and her baby and everyone else that sought her love.

Banging and smashing began outside, startling her. “What’s happening?”

“Don’t worry, your Grace. They’re building gallows.” He replied quickly. “Jon has ordered for the traitors on the ground to be hung. Are you alright with that? Do you want me to stop him?”

She was more than alright with it. She could burn them individually if she wanted, but as long as they were dead, as long as they couldn’t hurt her anymore, she did not care. She said nothing in reply to her Hand.  _ Let Jon have his justice. It was his home after all. _

“I worry… your Grace, If perhaps there were people assisting… behind the scenes.” Tyrion said, concern on his face. Daenerys was worried now as well. Tyrion knew deception and plots better than anyone, having lived in King’s Landing.

“I don’t know… who?” She said quietly. She needed to trust someone to help her, didn’t she? She could not do battle with no allies.

Tyrion paused, before reaching over to hold her hand with a smile. “Do not worry yourself, your Grace. I will look into it. I have my suspicions.”

“Who?!” She yelled.

“Varys, perhaps. He has always been an agent of discord.” He replied. Daenerys was unsure. Varys didn’t have an interest in seeing the North independent and certainly would never gain a pardon from Cersei. But… if Tyrion had suspicions, perhaps she should listen?

“I...Alright.” She said softly.

“I would be wary of the servants, my Queen. They are Varys’ favourite to employ.” He said firmly as he stood from the floor. Daenerys felt afraid - it was the servants who gave her food and washed her clothes and walked the corridors. She was so lost in her grief, that she did not know what to do.

The dwarf walked quickly out the room, closing the door firmly behind him. He had a task to do, to unveil anyone else who contributed to the mutiny that had ravaged Winterfell.

Daenerys was left alone in the cold room. She stared blankly at the fire in her grief, and thought for a second she could see a small figure dancing in the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanging is a pretty shit way too go, especially if it's not a drop (which snaps your neck instantly). Justice is justice and treason must be pulled from the root, or it simply continues to grow. Interpret that as you will.
> 
> Justice and family are my two major themes of this fic. Nothing is said without purpose.  
\----  
Enough with me being cryptic lol  
Daenerys Targaryen needs a hug, exhibit #23546


	42. Jon VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory."

Jon had left Daenerys alone all day, per the instructions of Grey Worm. It seemed the both of them had retreated to her chambers to grieve in peace. He wanted to go to her, badly, but was unsure of how to best look after her in such a low moment. She had been so cold when she stepped from the crypts, and Jon did not know how she was truly feeling about it all. Did she blame him?

Jon had seen Tyrion fluttering around the keep after his own chat with Daenerys, but ignored him. He did not wish to hear the drunken advice of the dwarf at this moment. He wanted to comfort Dany.

After dinner, Jon’s resolve finally broke, and the man carried himself as quickly as he could to Daenerys’ chamber. He knocked on it, suddenly and harshly, and begged for her to open up. Grey Worm answered the door.

“Dany?” He said softly, past the armoured man standing in the doorframe.

She said something to the man in Valyrian, Jon did not know what, causing Grey Worm to push past him and leave the room.

She looked tired. She was wrapped in a dark cloak, her long hair dripping water down her back as she sat on the large bed. Her eyes were dark and swollen, and the sight of it all made Jon’s heart sink. He held out a bowl of food and placed it on the vanity by the door. She looked at it curiously.

“Who gave you it?” She asked quietly.

He was confused by this question. “Tormund. Why?”

As soon as he said it she stood up and walked briskly to the plate, snatching it. She began eating it as if she had not seen a meal in her life. It was then, Jon realised, Daenerys had likely not eaten all day.

“How are you?” Jon asked.

“How am I?!” She snapped but immediately regretted her anger. “I’m sorry, Jon, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s alright.” He said quietly as he sat down on the bed next to her. The bowl on her lap wobbled as he did, and Daenerys giggled at the sight of the stew almost falling on the floor.

Her small laughter died down almost immediately, and she quickly leaned to her side to rest her head on Jon’s shoulder.

“They hate me here.” She said, simply.

“I don’t hate you. I love you.” He replied as quickly as he could. He loved her more than anything in the world.

She moved away from his shoulder. “Not you, Jon. The North.  _ They  _ hate me!”

“Dany…” He said. Not all of them. Lyanna Mormont and others knelt. Perhaps not out of love, but out of loyalty.

“No, Jon!” Daenerys burst out in anger and stood from the bed. “They  _ despise  _ me. I have done nothing to them! I save their pathetic lives and I am repaid with blood!”

She was not weeping, not anymore. Her tears had turned into rage, into fury. Jon understood. Jon wanted to throttle every lord he got his hands on, for daring to harm his family and Daenerys. He would make sure every single one of those involved hanged.

When he did not reply quick enough, she continued. “Lord Glover is dead, I stabbed him more times than I could count. But there’s more, Jon. There’s always more.”

“You think someone else planned it?” Jon asked, confused. He thought Lord Glover was the ringleader and had suspected Daenerys had been his killer the second he was dragged from the crypts.

“Not planned… I don’t know. Helped.” She said, her voice quiet again in fear. “What if it was Sansa, Jon? What if it was her!?”

“Arya found nothing to prove it.” Jon retorted.

Daenerys shut her mouth, unsure of how to continue. “Tyrion thinks it’s Varys.”

“And what do you think?”

Daenerys said nothing and instead crossed her arms. She walked to the large window, looking outside to the slowly rising gallows. The sun was mostly set, and the cold was biting Jon’s skin as it flowed into the room.

Jon moved to stand behind her and rubbed her back. “We’ll work it out, whoever it is. We’ll kill them.”

Daenerys sobbed at that. “I don’t know what to do, Jon! I don’t know who to trust!”

Jon didn’t know who to trust either - Arya had already resumed her tailing of Sansa following the battle. Come to think of it, he thinks Arya has Sansa sequestered to her rooms.

“It won’t end, Jon!” Daenerys loudly got out between sobs. “It won’t end until Cersei’s dead! We need to go south now!”

“I know we do,” Jon replied. But it had not even been a day, they could not march south tomorrow. “We’ll go as soon as we are ready.”

“No! We will go when I say we go! I will not endure more losses! She will keep taking everything! I won’t have it! I will not lose you, or my dragons or my baby-” She stopped the second the word came out of her mouth, her hand clamping over her face in shock.

Jon froze.

“Baby?” He asked quietly. Daenerys refused to look at him, instead staring into the sunset sky. “Dany?”

“Yes.” She said finally, turning to look at him, her eyes tinged with fear. “Yes, a baby.”

Jon smiled, so wide that it squeezed his eyes shut and hurt the muscles on his face. A child of his own, to love and hold. Joy. That was what Jon was feeling. He pulled her into a hug, so quick and bold that she could not have stopped it if she tried. He rested his chin on her wet hair and wept.

_ Father no children _ . One last big fuck you to the Night’s Watch. Jon chuckled at the thought.

“What if the witch was right, though?” She said, muffled as she was crushed against his chest. “Would the gods be so cruel as to take another from me?”

Jon shushed her, his hand rubbing her back as he held her close. They would deal with it should it happen. He would stay by her side. Anyway, Jon had faith. He would hold a little boy or girl in his arms.

She pulled back, looking up at him with wide eyes. “I’ve not told anyone. Missandei… Missandei was the only one that knew.”

“We can keep it quiet. You should probably tell your advisors, though.” He replied sadly.

“No-” She interrupted firmly. “I’m not telling Varys. I don’t trust him, not after what Tyrion said.”

Jon was unsure of this faith in Tyrion. To him, Varys’ involvement seemed unlikely. But again, Jon was a soldier, not a politician - he did not know the minds of spiders.

“Then we won’t tell him,” Jon said, plain and simple. 

She jumped back into his embrace, squeezing his neck as hard and lovingly as she could. Her hair had begun to dry, and Jon thought she looked like a goddess, the setting sun flickering off her hair so that it looked like it was aflame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consider me in the camp that Jon Snow is simultaneously a dumbass who doubts in his ability to comfort people & an absolute unit who is like "fuck u I do what I want"  
Soft boy and angry man at the same time.
> 
> Anyway, aw :) <3
> 
> Side note:  
Wow, you guys are brutal. Like I already have the next 6 or so chapters already written and you guys are really in for the torture and feeding people to Drogon... Should I be worried if I do something you guys don't like hahaha?


	43. Arya VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Rise, she thought. Rise and eat and run with us."

Arya walked slowly around the walls of Winterfell, her small feet leaving footprints in the snow. Normally, the walls were a pretty sight, but if you looked inward towards the castle, justice was unfolding. Jon and Daenerys stood on father’s balcony, Daenery clad in black and red, and Jon in his dark Northern armour and furs. 

From such a distance, Arya could not make out the looks on their faces, but they stood there like stone for what seemed like an eternity, watching as group after group of men were mounted on the gallows and hung for their crimes. 

She had had her time with the men in the cells, each and every one of them. They would scream a name and the pain would stop, but they would be sent to their deaths either way. None of them knew who had planned it, who had helped to put Lord Glover in contact with the Golden Company. Even the Golden Company didn’t know.

Following orders, they had all cried.  _ Fuck your orders _ .

The secrets of the insurrection, of the massacre, were for dead men alone, it seemed. Only Lord Glover and Harry Strickland truly knew the answers. The thought of it made Arya’s blood boil. 

A crowd had gathered around the gallows. Some were noble ladies crying for mercy for their husbands and sons, some were smallfolk, who cheered as the men dropped and choked. Arya stayed silent, her rage too overpowering. The floating men had done nothing but play with their lives, and deserved nothing less.

From her… conversations, few of the men involved were actual lords. Seconds sons and distant cousins. Commanders and bastards. All who wanted a taste of crowns and titles. Arya pondered what they would have actually done if they had succeeded. Place their wolf crown on Jon? On Sansa? Or perhaps Lord Glover would have had a glimpse of power and put it on himself?

Arya had actually locked Sansa in her room, part petty revenge for doing it to her during the feast, and part caution that Sansa may be involved. Tyrion had attempted to get in at one point, to question her, but Arya had denied him. She did not trust the little man any more than she trusted the bald spider. It was a shame, though, that Sansa was not outside to see such justice served unto the North.

Sansa’s guilt, Arya could not prove. In fact, she was not sure she believed Sansa guilty at all. There was only one way to find out.

“Would you please retrieve Lady Sansa and bring her here?” Arya said to one of the Unsullied standing on the ramparts. The man nodded and turned on his heel to complete his task.

Arya was still afraid of some of the Northern guards. A horrifying thought, really. Some of the men who had been charged with her protection had turned on her for a promise of gold or lands. Men of dishonour, Arya believed.

Sansa stumbled cautiously towards her on the ramparts, looking down at the executions unfolding before them. She flinched as one of the Northern guards brushed past her. Her lip has been slashed from the fighting and would form a dainty scar on the right side of her lip. Nothing that a bit of powder wouldn’t hide.

Her eyes, however, were visibly tired. Afraid, even. Her hair was down from its usual braids and she had not even bothered to clothe herself in fine silks - opting for a simple blue cotton dress instead. Lady Sansa was not a lady at all as she stood in front of the younger Stark. She was a young woman, terrified to step outside and into her own home.

Sansa recoiled and looked away when the next set of men dropped to their deaths.

“What do you want, Arya?” She asked tensely.

“The truth,” Arya replied, still standing to face the courtyard below. Sansa stared at her sister, unsure of how to respond. “I’ve found nothing to connect you to all of this.”

“Then is that not your proof, sister?” Sansa interrupted.

Arya glanced at her then and saw her eyes were desperate and pleading. “I don’t have any. That’s why I don’t know. But if I am going to defend you against Jon and the Queen, I want to know I am on the right side.”

“What do you mean, defend me?” Sansa asked, a slight tremble in her voice.

“You’ve not seen them, sister. They’re angry. Bloodthirsty. If they get even the slightest hint that you had a part in all this, they  _ will  _ treat you the same as the rest, no doubt about it.” Arya spat out.

“I did not do this.” Sansa declared, her voice firm. Arya had to be sure.

“Let’s say I don’t believe you,” Arya said. “Let’s say we play a little game.”

“Arya, please.” The woman looked as if she were about to cry. Littlefinger was not a good memory at all.

“Let’s say you want to be Queen in the North. You want to rid the North of Daenerys, despite the fact she saved you from the army of the dead. You want Winterfell for yourself.” Arya continued, ignoring her sister’s trembling lip. “So you conspired with Cersei Lannister to get rid of Daenerys, permanently, in the hope that Jon would also be killed in the action or fall so far into his grief he would abdicate and subsequently cede the North to you.”

Sansa slapped Arya square across the face. 

“I don’t know who you think I am, but Jon is  _ my brother _ , Targaryen or no,” Sansa whispered, wary of voices around them. Arya had not flinched at her sister’s attack and merely stood as still as stone as her sister continued. “I did not - would not - have my  _ own home _ massacred and burned for a crown!”

Sansa’s eyes burned bright in anger, but Arya had trained for so long, to lie so perfectly and detect them in return. Sansa’s eyes were not a woman that had been caught.

“I’ll admit it, I don’t like Daenerys, I probably never will, but I am not a traitor. I know she saved us! I was just… fighting it. Jon saved us too.” Sansa continued. “All I want… is for us to be  _ fine _ .”

_ Fine. _ Sansa wanted the pack together and alive, just as Arya did. Arya pushed her further. The game would out her in the end. “You cannot play with us like we are dolls. We are your family!”

“I know!” Sansa shouted. “I am telling you the truth. I swear it. On any god you can think of. On Jon’s life, on yours, on Robb’s and Bran’s and Rickon’s. On mother’s and father’s. On Winterfell! I. Did. Not. Do. This.”

“Then who did?” Arya replied coldly.

“I don’t know. I know too well not to place any bets.” Sansa said, defeated. She stared back at the courtyard sadly. Jon and Daenerys still stood on the balcony, speaking to each other softly as Sansa watched.

At that moment, Arya believed her. It is only the guilty man who accuses another. After all their games with Littlefinger, Arya finally understood. Lady Sansa, controlled by others, wanted power, so she would be free and safe. But Sansa, the woman, her sister, just wanted her  _ home _ .

Sansa would have never set Winterfell ablaze. Sansa would not have conspired with Cersei Lannister, of all people, to butcher her brother’s love and the rest of her family and people. Sansa was as much a Stark as the rest of them - even if she had been a wolf raised by cutthroat lions.

“Okay,” Arya said quietly.

Sansa jumped at Arya’s sudden words. “Okay?”

“I believe you, Sansa.” She replied. Sansa smiled a pure, genuine one, and sighed in relief. Arya nodded back. “But I’m going to warn you now, sister, there is no third side in this war. Pick that third side and let it be your doom.”

Sansa paused and nodded slowly at her sister’s words. “I’m smarter than that, Arya. Let it all be over... I’ve had enough of being afraid.”

Sansa’s admission stunned her. The woman rarely owned up to her feelings, nevermind negative ones. She had admitted her fear, admitted what really scared her. It was not Daenerys or Jon or the dragons in the sky. It was war, and traitors and Lannisters. Arya couldn’t blame her in the slightest. One could only live so many years a victim of politics before wanting it all to end.

“We’re going to march South soon, aren’t we?” Sansa asked, moving to stand closer to her sister on the ramparts.

“ _ They _ are.  _ We _ have been ordered to stay in Winterfell.” Arya replied.

Sansa chuckled. “So that means  _ I’m  _ staying in Winterfell.”

Both girls smiled. Arya would not stay in Winterfell, no, no matter what Jon ordered her to do. They had a war to finish. Sansa’s face grew solemn next to her as she opened her mouth once again.

“It’s about your list, isn’t it? Cersei’s last.” Sansa asked.

“Among a few others, yes,” Arya replied quickly. She had to finish it, she knew it deep in her soul. She needed to see Cersei Lannister’s dead body with her own eyes, the Mountain’s too, before she could finally sit and rest.

She would never forgive herself if she didn’t.

“Please be careful,” Sansa whispered.

She always was. She was going to be fine because that is what Arya willed it to be. Whether she would return to Winterfell or not, she did not yet know. But she would live, but only after Cersei had died.

“I make no promises.” Arya japed, to which Sansa scoffed. “But maybe you should. Make some promises.”

Sansa stayed silent, picking at her hands in hesitation.

“I mean it, Sansa. You don’t need to prove anything to me. Prove it to them.” Arya continued, scolding the elder sister. She nodded her head towards Jon and Dany.

As she looked, she spotted the scurrying of Lord Varys across the courtyard, who flinched as the next four men twisted to their deaths. Jon had mentioned at breakfast the possibility of a traitor in Daenerys’ ranks, and now she was intrigued.

Before Sansa could respond, Arya fled from the ramparts. She did not wish to enter another conversation, another argument, about the power of the North. Sansa could be as innocent as she liked, but it meant nothing if she did not kneel.

Arya made a silent prayer as she walked down the stone steps. Not a prayer for death, nor a prayer of names. But a prayer for her sister. She prayed that Sansa would learn her lesson, and change her ways. She did not wish to see her sister’s ashes.

She followed Lord Varys into the stone castle, keeping her distance as he walked. The man seemed in a hurry.

He turned several corners, before fleeing into his room and locking it behind him. She sighed, exasperated, as she lost sight of the bald man. He likely knew he was being watched. Arya spotted the window a few metres down from his door and decided to take a page out of Bran’s book.

Hopefully, no lions would push her to her death.

She clambered into the window frame, grateful for the hard portcullis which framed the inner keep walls. Arya bounced from stone to stone, grabbing whatever she could along the wall. When she finally reached Varys’ room, she stopped and held her breath.

The man was bent over his desk, burning a letter on a small candle. Arya narrowed her eyes.

As soon as the sealless letter turned into ash, the man grabbed another pile and began to write more in black ink. What he was writing, Arya could not tell. He turned towards the window abruptly. Arya whizzed her head back towards the wall as quick as she could. He stomped towards it and banged the window shutters closed.

It wasn’t proof, but it was something.

The bells tolled, summoning the Lords of the North to their oak tables. Arya made her way off the outer walls of her home and hurried inside to seek out the Great Hall, and the lords inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much happening at once! Having to rejig a few chapters in order for it to flow a bit better, so expect some delays.
> 
> Sansa, Sansa, Sansa. It takes a slashed lip and a berating off Arya for her to finally see the error of her ways. It may take an extra push to act on it.  
\--------------------------------  
Someone privately messaged me to ask about the quotes I put in the chapter summaries, and I thought this chapter would be good to explain why I pick certain ones.  
Typically, I'll assign specific quotes because:
> 
> 1) The person refers to said quote in the chapter (e.g. Sansa refers to the swinging the sword Ned quote, or Jon last chapter about his vows)  
2) The POV or someone else prominent in the chapter said the quote themselves or it is about them (e.g. Bronn attempting to kill Daenerys)  
3) It's vaguely on the topic of the chapter (e.g. Jaime talking about Rhaegar's dead children)  
3) Neither of these and I just think the quote has an extra meaning past its purpose in ASOIAF - this chapter being a good example, as though this quote has to do with Arya dreaming of Nymeria, I sort of saw it in relation to this chapter as Arya's last-ditch attempt to welcome Sansa into the pack properly.  
4) I'm trying to avoid overusing the really common ones that everybody remembers - both because they're sometimes too on the nose, and because I may be saving them for the final chapters.  
\--------------------------------  
Anyway, hope you guys are enjoying it so far! Next chapter up shortly.


	44. Sansa VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Did you teach them how to kneel? The graveyards of the Seven Kingdoms are full of brave men who had never learned that lesson."

Sansa stood out in the cold as her younger sister fled from the walls. The snow was softly kissing her cheeks as they fell, freezing the tears that were forming on her face.

The attack had been horrifying. Her lip still stung when she spoke and her eyes could not unsee the corpses littered around her home. Sansa was afraid, just as she had just admitted to Arya. Afraid of more. There was always more.

She had just defended herself to her own family, her own blood. Sansa had nothing to do with the insurrection - she had sent no ravens, whispered no treasons. Still, the immense guilt that she may have contributed to it, willingly or not, haunted her. The Northern lords had cast aside their honour and loyalty to claw power for the North, power Sansa had also desired, if not for better reasons.

But now? She did not wish to wear a traitor’s crown, placed upon her by her would-be butchers.

Daenerys Targaryen had seen a third of her surviving men slaughtered, her advisor’s throat torn open, and the complete and utter destruction of any safety and guest right she had in Winterfell. Years ago, Southron men had done the same to her mother and Robb. The uncanniness made Sansa want to retch.

Sansa continued to observe the slow executions. She watched as the men who brandished their blades against the Starks dropped and suffocated on wooden gallows. These same men, who she had trusted to defend her as a true Stark, had wrought down her door in the attempt to have her head. She could not see their face properly from where she stood. She could not see their eyes panic and their lips go blue. But she could see their legs slowly stop kicking as the life was choked from them.

And that was enough.

She was still furious at Arya for locking her in her room, just like Ramsay had done, but kept her rage to a simmer as she pondered Arya’s words, not her actions.

Arya had accused her of serving herself, and perhaps she had. She had rejected Daenerys and dismissed her apologies. She had stood and watched, uncaring, as her and Jon’s life came under threat. She hadn’t cared about the consequences. Only the goal. Home. Free of foreign adversaries and oppressing rulers. A home ruled by the Starks and the Starks alone.

But that was what Lord Glover had wanted too, wasn’t it? He had dragged the claimant Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a noble lady in her own right, and attempted to murder her. Had the guest right died when Robb died as well? Sansa was disgusted. Enraged. They had attacked her as well, attacked Jon and Arya and Bran. 

Perhaps that had been a childhood dream too. Fanciful tales of Northern honour and noble soldiers. Of honesty and integrity and loyalty. Sansa had stopped believing in tales when her father’s head fell onto the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, but, to her, that had always been fact.

Did honour die with our fathers? Did it die with Ned and Robb and those who marched South in her and Arya’s name?

Sansa leaned her arms on the dark stone, her hands clasping over each other. Her head fell on them in thought, unsure of where to go from here. It didn’t look very ladylike, but Sansa realised she didn’t care.

Someone slowly traipsed towards her, feet light and silent, but Sansa knew it was not Arya. Instead, it was Theon, wrapped in grey furs and a gaunt look on his face.

“How are you doing, Sansa?” He asked gently.

Sansa smiled, as convincingly as she could. “Well enough. I’m just… shaken.”

“We’re lucky we weren’t hurt worse,” Theon replied as he took up the spot next to Sansa on the walls. He pointed quickly to her lip as if to back up his point.

_ Lucky _ . What was luck, nowadays? Luck was a steel sword and an unbroken shield. If you owned neither, you had none.

“We’re unlucky that there seem to be traitors in Winterfell, and my own family thought it was me.” She sighed.

Theon grimaced and turned to look at the unfolding scene below them.

“I like to meddle, it’s true. I’m not going to deny that. But it is always with our best interests at heart.” She said. “But a massacre in my own home, Theon? Even I would not lower myself to such dishonour.”

“Word around the men says it was Lord Glover. They found him all bloodied in the crypts.” Theon said quickly.

Sansa had heard the men talking about it outside her door, of how his neck and chest had been ravaged by steel. From the talk of Daenerys’ bloody state when she left the crypts, it was clear who Glover’s executioner was.

“Lord Glover was one of the first to name Jon King in the North. It is no wonder the man refused to kneel. Few of us  _ want _ to kneel.” Sansa replied.

Theon turned to lean on the wall with one arm. For a second, it looked like the old him, the young and snarky boy who had walked her father’s home in search of his next fight. But, his face was soft and deep in thought, and the image from Sansa’s head disappeared in an instant.

“Do you realise you’re contradicting yourself?” He blurted out.

“What?” Sansa replied.

“You want to protect your family by isolating Winterfell, but isolating Winterfell does not protect your family,” Theon said bluntly. Sansa moved her head to look at him, her brows furrowed in confusion at his words. “You say an independent North is how you will make sure the Starks are safe from Southerners, but by calling for such a thing you’re no doubt to incur the wrath of Daenerys Targaryen, and Jon as well.”

Sansa was stunned and stopped for a second to process his logic. She wanted Winterfell safe, what more to it was there than that? She had not planned this insurrection, but she could not lie and say their long term aims were not her own.

“We said we’d never kneel again, Theon. Yara said the same. The South has done much to us!” Sansa declared. “It is only when we rule ourselves that we can rule our own fate.”

Theon’s expression stayed blank. “A crown on a wolf will not make you any safer than before. It will not stop the world existing below the Neck.”

Sansa looked to the floor. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she didn’t need power to protect herself. Daenerys Targaryen had spoken of ridding the world of their enemies, and at the moment Sansa had not believed a word she had said. But… what about the North? Words were wind, and for all Sansa knew, Daenerys Targaryen could be just more of the same.

Theon noticed her turmoil and spoke up again. “You don’t have to love her, Sansa. You don’t have to send her flowers and laugh at each other's jokes. But you love Jon. Is that not enough? You do all this talk of packs and surviving, but you’re not willing to let the pack change. If a pack doesn’t move or grow, Sansa, it dies.”

Sansa felt confused. Unsure of how to feel. She loved Jon, she loved her family. That’s why she had not told anyone of his secret. Daenerys was an unknown. Just as Ramsay and Joffrey and Cersei had been. Sansa could not anticipate what she had not experienced. In came this woman, armed with fire-breathing beasts, with talk of conquering the seven kingdoms and making it  _ better _ . All men lie, do they not? The past few years had taught her that.

A few bells rang, indicating for the Northern lords to move to the Great Hall. Sansa went to move, but Theon grabbed her arm.

“Sansa, don’t die that lone wolf.” He whispered. She looked at him, her eyes wide, and finally understood.

She moved away from him and descended the stone steps, as quick as her feet could take her.  _ I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell _ , she had always told herself. But was it from the building or the people? She was stronger because her family moved as one. United as one. It was only when they had been ripped to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms that the pack had been skinned alive.

Sansa entered the hall, the proceedings had already slowly begun. Arya whispered something in Jon’s ear as she walked in, and the sight made Sansa nervous. Would they put her to the sword, she wondered, for the crime of dissent?

She wanted to scream, that she was a true Stark, noble and brave. She did not bleed her family out of greed.

She sat at the front of the left table, in perfect view of everything and of Jon. He sat in the large centre chair, Arya a few paces behind him. Daenerys was nowhere to be found.

Jon stood and finally spoke. “I no longer trust a single man in this room.”

A few of the lords gasp at his words, murmuring to each other. Sansa sat silent, as pretty as a maiden lady, and awaited Jon’s words. Instead, he indicated to one of the Unsullied men in the corner, who disappeared around a corner in a flash.

When the man reappeared with another, he carried in the body of Lyanna Mormont on a wooden plank and placed her gently in the middle of the room.

The lords around her stayed deathly silent, bar a few, who began to weep at the sight of the decaying girl. Sansa bit down on her cheek so that she would not cry. The little lady had been changed and washed, ready to be sent home to Bear Island as the last of the noble House of Mormont.

“Are you happy with yourselves, my lords? Is  _ this _ what you wanted? Noble ladies hanging from the walls of Winterfell!?” Jon bellowed, his volume increasing with each word.

“I hope you’ve all seen the gallows. I hope you’ve seen the traitors. I know it was not all of you, but those who played a hand in this - who planned this horrid affair - are in this room.” He continued. “I have called you here to witness what your pride has wrought, my lords. The men outside hang from your own greed!”

“My King!” Lord Ryswell shouted, his slip of title not lost on any in the room. “My son! He is not a traitor - spare him!”

“I will not,” Jon replied firmly. “Roger, was it? Your son was in my family crypts attempting to murder his Queen,  _ my betrothed _ . He has long been fed to the wolves.”

“This cannot stand!” Lord Ryswell yelled in anger. A few of the lords murmured in agreement, but not many. “Lady Sansa, please!”

Sansa did not realise for a second that he had called on her. She turned in her seat to face the red-faced man. She did not know of his involvement, innocent until proven guilty, she supposed. But her blood boiled at the man’s defiance.

Jon and Arya turned to look at her, wary of the words which would spill from her mouth. Sansa glanced at them for a second, before standing up to face the ageing lord who had called on her good name.

“How dare you?” She said quietly.

Lord Ryswell stood there confused.

“HOW DARE YOU!” Sansa yelled.

The lords of Winterfell baulked at her shrieking, but Sansa did not care. If she wanted to protect her family, Arya had said,  _ prove it _ .

“Queen Daenerys marched North to save us from the dead. I’ll admit, I am not grateful enough for that. I was blinded by my own needs, and for that, I will personally apologise to her. But your apology, my lords? For treating her as bad as I? Steel and blood!” Sansa declared, her eyes full of fury. “What has the woman actually done to us, my lords? And do not speak of her father’s deeds, because her name is not Aerys!”

“She’s conquering us, my lady!” One shouted from the back, Lord Slate, she thinks.

“Is she?” Sansa baulked. “Jon bent the knee  _ after _ she agreed to help us. That is not how conquering works - though I suppose none of you would know.”

A couple chuckled at her words. Loyal men, Sansa hoped. Jon gave her a small smile, but his eyes were still cold and hard. Lord Ryswell spotted the exchange and shook his fist again.

“King Jon gave away his crown to a foreign whore! Perhaps we should have named another, eh?” He shouted, turning to seek the approval of the man around him as he indicated to the red-haired Stark. There were a few ayes, but many glared at him as he roared.

Jon looked as if he were about to spring from his seat and behead him, but paused when Sansa walked from her seat, closer to where the old man was standing. 

“I am the noble daughter of the good lord Eddard Stark. He was perhaps the most honourable man the North has ever seen. I cannot even claim you aspire to him, for there is not a shred of honour between you all. The last of the honourable North marched down with Robb, and didn’t come back.” Sansa spat out.

There was an uproar from the group of men that surrounded Lord Ryswell, angry shouts and shaking fists at Sansa’s harsh words. She did not care. Truth was truth, whether you saw it or not.

“I pledge my loyalty to those would protect me, not slaughter me for their own gain! I do not desire your broken crown, my lord. Sit down.” Sansa finished, turning on her heel so quick her cotton dress spun in the torchlight.

She walked gracefully back to her seat, ignoring the whispers of traitors as they stared at the back of her head.

Jon simply stared at her, to which Sansa nodded. Firm, and resolute.

Sansa was no fighter, she could not march South with Daenerys, but she could bend her noble knee. All of the North, and all of the Starks, would stand behind Daenerys. Reluctantly, perhaps, but Arya and Theon had made the truth clear to see.  _ We don’t break oaths _ . And oathbreakers die horrible deaths.

Jon stood, his palms on the table. He likely had not expected the session to be hijacked by his sister, but Sansa realised she likely did more damage to the Northern cause than Jon could have ever dreamed.

_ I know no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark _ , they had declared _ , but there are few Stark Kings left to crown. _

“I offer you this last mercy.” Jon declared. “Should the guilty parties step forward now and declare their treasons, then perhaps their lives will be spared in exchange for their lands and titles. Refuse, and I will find out your names anyway.”

Silence. No one moved. None looked at one another. None made a sound.

Jon sighed. He glanced suspiciously at Lord Ryswell, and then to Arya. Name number one, no doubt. He dismissed the room with the wave of a hand, their chance gone.

As the lords and ladies filed out from the cold hall, Sansa stayed in her seat. She and Jon shared a look. Not of suspicion or hatred, but family and loyalty. She would be loyal to House Stark, even if it meant abandoning independence. She did not wish to be reduced to ash by her brother’s Queen.

Jon dropped his head. The weight of the situation wiping any notion of relief at Sansa’s tentative loyalty straight off his face. Sansa knew what Jon had meant as he offered them their final chance to come forward.

_ Refuse, and burn. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and BAM! Sansa bends her bloody knee!
> 
> Don't get me wrong, this is a woman who kneeled out of fear, not out of love, of Daenerys. I think the chapter summary quote is really important to this - that those who don't kneel are dead men most of the time. Sansa knows this now, she knows she isn't protected by the Northern men, because they want the crown. She knows she is not protected by Jon, because he has already said so himself. What option does Sansa have left at this point? Kneel and live another day, or defy Daenerys one more time and burn alive? As Theon said, Sansa speaks so much of keeping the pack together and alive, that she hadn't realised she was the lone wolf.
> 
> That's not to say Sansa is doing this happily. She's going to be bitter about it, definitely. But she knows she is at least going into this submission as a protected party - as the future good-sister of the Queen. She simply needs to not fuck up.  
\-----------------------------------------------------  
HUGE ASS chapter coming up next. Literally spent all day writing it, and will be giving it a huge ass edit this evening.


	45. Jon IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The storms come and go, the waves crash overhead, the big fish eat the little fish, and I keep on paddling."

Jon Snow was a mess. An angry mess.

He was furious at the entire situation, his hands cramped badly from the constant clenching of his fists. He was still furious that people had attempted to butcher the ones he loved in their own home. He was also relieved that Sansa had finally seen some common sense. It wasn’t an official ‘bending of the knee’, Sansa was not a lord, after all, but it was enough. Sansa would never have declared her loyalties so boldly to the lords if they had been a lie - her pride was too fragile for that.

But, he put it all out of his brain to focus on the task at hand. Arya had whispered to him of Varys, and with Dany suspecting him too, Jon had taken it upon himself to find out more. He didn’t wish to leave it to Tyrion.

He stomped down the winding hallways on Winterfell, pushing past anyone who got in his way. A few jumped to the walls as he walked, unnerved by his furious face and clenched jaw.

Jon didn’t even knock on the door of the Spider before he busted into his room. The man looked startled, but regained his composure in an instant, a sweet smile spreading across his face. 

“What a pleasant surprise, my Lord!” Varys said cheerily.

Jon ignored his pleasantries, and walked past the plush armchair next to the man’s desk, dragging the seat with him. The man’s room was of a decent size, inhabiting what had been Rodrik Cassel’s room, he believed. Jon pulled the chair on its two back legs as slowly as he could, before letting it fall loudly as he reached the large window on the other side of the room.

The sun was beginning to set, a darkening grey fog replacing the sunny winter sky. Jon sat in the chair, unsheathing Longclaw as he did to place it against the wooden arm. It would remain there for their conversation, Jon had decided. A threat.  Varys eyed Jon curiously, a slight look of worry crossing his eyes as the white-hilted sword clanged against the floor.

“Lord Varys,” Jon said bluntly. He wasn’t too sure where he was going with it all, but he was too angry to care.

“What do you need of me, my Lord?” Varys asked, sweetly again. The sound made Jon want to roll his eyes.

Jon’s hands gripped the arms of the dark chair. “I hear you like to burn letters. Not common practice, unless you have something to hide.”

The man shifted on his feet uncomfortably and then moved swiftly to sit on the large white bed nearby. “I do not know what you are talking about, my Lord.”

“Don’t lie to me, Varys.” Jon snapped back, his fingers twitching towards his blade. Varys spotted the slight movement and swallowed. “You burned a letter. Why? What were its contents?”

“You ask why, my Lord. Why? Because I want peace in all the realm.” Varys replied smugly. Jon’s anger grew at the man’s avoidance of the true question.

“You do not know what peace is, Spider. You move from one King to the next like a flame catching onto kindling.” Jon scoffed.

“Is Ser Davos not the same? He served Stannis before you.” Varys retorted, crossing his arms into his sickly green coat.

“Ser Davos doesn’t try to kill them!” Jon snapped. Ser Davos was a good man, Jon would not let his integrity be besmirched by the possible traitor before him now.

They both sit in silence for a few moments, the only sound in the room the soft flicker of the fire. Jon clenched his jaw while the man stared at the floor in thought. He was making a decision.

“I did not try to kill Daenerys. Your petty lords did.” Varys began. Jon already suspected a conspiracy, he did not need it confirmed. “I have, however, known about it for a number of weeks.”

“What?” Jon interrupted. He almost stood from his wooden seat, if not for Varys’ continued ramble.

“Let me explain myself, if you have decided me guilty already. I am guilty of wanting what is best for the people. Daenerys Targaryen will not bring peace to the realm. Her barren womb is a succession crisis waiting to happen, and her desire for justice will no doubt cause strife and civil war between the good lords of Westeros.” Varys elaborated. Jon could have chuckled at his first point. _Daenerys' barren womb? I'd beg to differ_, Jon thought. “The realm needs someone else, my lord. You.”

Jon’s head snapped up. Varys knew.

“I don't know what you're on about,” Jon replied as calmly as he could. "I am the Lord of Winterfell."

“And the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen. Her birthright is yours.” Varys said cooly.

_ Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit _ . Jon did not know what to do, how to react. His mind swirled, trying to piece together the connections. Who had told him? Sam? Bran? Another? But it was too late now. The man knew.

“How do you know?” Jon asked quietly.

“Ink tells many tales, Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name,” Varys replied with a smile.

“Shut up!” Jon shouted, standing from his seat. “Do you take me for a traitor?”

“I take you for a king,” Varys said, his hands clasped together so proudly. “You are wise, a good soldier, you listen carefully to your counsel. Such qualities make you more suited to the crown.”

Jon stared the man down, as the realisation of the man’s flattery dawned on him. “That’s what this is about. She won’t listen to you anymore.”

Varys cleared his throat. “Much like Aerys did to Tywin and the others-”

“Do  _ not _ compare her to her father!” Jon interrupted with a yell.

“You were not alive to see the damage your grandfather caused. The madness he descended to. When a king has no ears, the realm suffers.” Varys spat out.

Jon knew the tales of the Mad King, what he had done to the realm and to the Starks. There was not a shred of doubt in his heart that said Daenerys could ever be the same.

Jon saw the truth. Daenerys wanted to change things, to rid the realm of falsehood and treachery. Such a word had no place for a spider such as Varys. Many men serve others in the name of their own survival, many men say they know what is best - but only because it is best for them. Jon would not rip the crown from his own wife’s head, because some eunuch told him he  _ must _ .

He owed him nothing.

“You’re a fool. I am Robert Baratheon come again, if you dared to look close enough. A man who can fight and kill and command, but cannot rule. The crown should only be worn by those with the strength and will to wear it.” Jon replied angrily. He still did not sit down.

“Perhaps that is the problem, she wants it too much!” Varys said, but his voice sounded more desperate. The spider could see his web unravelling, for he had struck too soon, and the fly had not been caught.

“Can you hear yourself, traitor?” Jon replied calmly. “I like to think I am a good man. I have fought and ended wars. I will not begin another, because  _ you _ think it is best for the realm.”

Varys sighed and stood from the bed. He glided towards Jon, a sad smile pressing his lips together so fine that they practically disappeared from his face.

“You need not be the hero anymore, Jon Snow. Melisandre’s Red God has no use of you any longer. You are free to be a King.” He said.

“No, Varys. It means I am free to die.” Jon replied bluntly.

That’s what Beric had explained to him. The Lord of Light kept people around for a purpose, and Jon had done his. Jon was free to live, to explore and love. And after that, yes, he was free to die. R’hllor need not bring him back again.

Varys simply stood in silence.

“You’re nought but a mummer. You serve only yourself.” Jon spat.

“I serve the realm,  _ your Grace _ .” He replied.

Jon wanted to punch his bald head straight into the wall. He was no king. He would not betray his love for power, unlike the lords and the man before him. Jon would be what he had always been. A man. A hero. A brave son of Eddard Stark who strived to do what was right by the people,  _ and his family _ . 

He could protect the realm far better than Varys ever could. He would do it with his sword, not with a crown.  Varys would never face death in the hope the realm could be saved. He would create it so that he could save himself.

Daenerys would bring justice to this world of the like the Seven Kingdoms had never truly seen. She would have an heir, a son or daughter of their own, to wear the crown after she was gone. A new world, she often called it. She would burn for it.

Jon would as well.

“So be it,” Jon stated, his expression hard. The spider had chosen his third side and chosen his doom.

Jon stormed from the room. Varys’ face fell as he did. Jon indicated to the Unsullied guards down the hall to prevent the bald man from leaving. He needed to go tell Daenerys. He needed to tell her now, before the Spider could even move to harm her or their innocent child.

He stomped down the hall, his leather boots clearing the dust and bits from the floor as he walked. The hallway was dark, the sun had set a while ago, leaving the stone castle under the cover of darkness. He brushed past Tyrion, the little man looking haggard and tired as he stumbled out of the way of Jon’s rage. Daenerys’ rooms were not too far away, and again, Jon stormed in without so much as a knock.

“Jon!” Daenerys shouted, startled. He had not meant to scare her.

She was sat by the fire, holding what looked like a leather strap or chain. She was better dressed this time, having donned a simple red dress and left her soft hair down from her usual braids. Grey Worm stood by her side, as well as his own direwolf. The poor man looked no better than she did, both of them with tired, dark eyes and sad faces.

Tyrion stumbled in behind him, almost out of breath after following Jon’s brutal pace down the halls. Daenerys’ sprung from her chair in a panic, her eyes wide in confusion and fear.

“Varys.” Jon said firmly. He did not know how to explain what had just happened to her.

Tyrion stepped forward at Jon’s words. “Yes, Varys, your Grace. According to one of the serving girls, he had been starting to make attempts to poison your food - but you never received them.”

Both Jon and Dany turned at his reveal, their faces full of shock. 

“I went to investigate his reason for burning letters, and instead he turned it into a proposal that I should usurp you,” Jon added. Both Tyrion and Grey Worm glanced at him worryingly.

Daenerys’ shock melted from her face to reveal nothing but rage. Her eyes flared and her hands clenched into fists so hard Jon worried she would draw blood.

“I… I told him to look me in the eye.” Daenerys said, not really to anyone in particular. Jon did not know what she was on about, but Tyrion and Grey Worm seemed to.

“Your Grace-” Tyrion began.

“Bring him to the clearing.” Daenerys commanded. “I will not have him threaten House Targaryen for a second longer.”

Grey Worm moved immediately, exiting the room as quick as a flash. Tyrion turned his head to watch him leave, glancing from the corner of his eye at Daenerys. Confused at her words, perhaps. Jon and Dany did not break eye contact with one another, the look they were sharing between them filling them both with the resolve they needed.

“Do you mean the… dragon’s clearing, your Grace?” Tyrion asked tentatively, seeking confirmation of Varys’ fate.

Daenerys simply looked at him. “If you do not wish to be present, Lord Tyrion, you are free to stay here.” 

The man sighed. Jon felt for him a little - the two men had known each other a long time and clearly had been friends.

Tyrion fled the room, leaving Jon and Daenerys alone. Before he left, he glanced at Daenerys once again, to her flat stomach this time, his face dawning in realisation at her words. They heard his slow stomps down the hall as he left, getting quieter and quieter with each passing second.

Daenerys glided over to the small table vanity on the other side of the room in a hurry and attempted a braid in her hair. He could tell what she was thinking,  _ she needed to look like a queen, she needed to look strong. _ Her hands shook as she tried to weave the strands together, her face becoming increasingly frustrated as she struggled to make it look neat.

Jon dashed over to join her, taking the soft silver hair from her pale hands to do the braid himself. Just a simple one, he decided. It was all they needed. He kept glancing at her in the mirror on the table, to find her looking at him with tears in her eyes.

He finished the braid, placing it to fall over her right shoulder. She stood, as straight as she could with the weight of grief on her shoulders, and turned to face him. Down the hall, they could hear the sounds of a struggle, the sound of leather armour dragging Varys from his chamber.

They exchanged no more words, and instead moved towards the door and down the hall. It was even darker than before, the winter evening blackening the sky. Jon and Dany walked out together, with Varys dragged by loyal unsullied not a hundred metres behind them.

Few were outside, the legitimate refugees having fled Winterfell for safer towns like White Harbour. Jon couldn’t blame them.

As they approached the clearing several hundreds of metres from Winterfell, the night had become so dark that Jon could not even spot Dany’s sons. Jon could feel them, though. He could feel their hot breaths and ferocious bodies taking up the air around them, even if they were shrouded in the night.

Ghost had followed behind them, concerned, and brushed up against Daenerys’ red dress to ease her raging pain. Jon smiled at the sight, relieved that Ghost loved her as much as he did. The wolf growled, however, as the Unsullied approached with fiery torches, dragging Varys with them.

The man looked terrified, no doubt not anticipating Jon would seek out Daenerys so quickly after their treasonous conversation. Varys seemed to not know Jon very well at all. Fool.

The Unsullied throw him into the snow in front of Dany and Jon, causing him to yelp as his ageing knees hit the solid ground. The men backed off, forming a ring around them.

Varys attempted to stand, and the two Targaryens watched patiently as he scrambled slowly from the floor. His hands were bound in iron shackles, and the weight of them brought his normally finely tuned posture down.

“Where’s Tyrion?” Varys called out.

“Not here.” Daenerys replied coldly.

The man seemed to panic, more than before, as his eyes flickered and blinked as he looked around nervously at his Unsullied cage.

“I made myself clear to you, Jon Snow! The realm needs better! Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?” Varys said.

“Do  _ not _ twist my words, Lord Varys.” Jon snapped. He’d had enough of word games. The man was a traitor - he had allowed the insurrection to go ahead and threaten his queen, armed with the knowledge that he could simply replace her with Jon.

Daenerys stepped forward then. “Do you remember Dragonstone? I do. I told you to look me in the eye and explain what I am doing wrong.”

Varys said nothing.

“Pathetic.” Daenerys whispered, the disgust clear as day on her face. Her lips were practically a snarl.

“Who told you, Lord Varys? At least die with some honesty.” Jon asked bitterly.

“I already told you, I don't know. A letter that bore no seal.” Varys said quietly, his eyes shutting. The man knew he was about to die. 

“Liar.” Jon spat out. Daenerys raised a hand to his chest, stopping Jon’s small lunge towards the man. Perhaps he was not lying, but Jon did not care.

“I am not. But if you demand my honesty, then I do have a gift for you both.” Varys said, a slight sense of glee in his words. “Names.”

“Names?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes, names. Of your Northern traitors. The letters I was burning were theirs, among the one that informed me of Lord Snow’s dragon blood. If I must perish, Targaryens, so must they. Corroborate it with your greenseer boy if you wish.” Varys spat out in return. His face was full of spite, and his hands were twisting in his chains.

“Name them!” Jon yelled.

Varys cleared his throat and rattled them off, one by one. “Lord Ryswell. Lady Glover, though no surprise there. Lady Dustin. Lord Cerwyn. Lord Slate.”

Jon was furious, his lip trembling in a rage he truly had never felt before. He would deal with them later. When he turned to look at Dany, her face read exactly the same.

There was silence in the clearing. Jon and Dany did not speak, Varys did not speak, nor the Unsullied faithfully standing guard.

“If you have any last words, now is the time.” Jon said quietly. The man didn’t deserve a second more of their attention, but Jon would at least execute the man with Ned Stark's honour - something he had neglected when ridding the world of the Lannister sellsword.

Varys sucked in a deep breath, his lip trembling slightly as he decided what he would say last.

“I… really hope I am wrong. About everything. But I serve the realm, Targaryens. Their interests are my own. There are others in this world who serve only themselves, who have far horrid treacheries in store for you than I.” Varys said, as boldly as he could. If Jon looked closer, perhaps the bald man was shedding tears.

The Spider had survived the Mad King, brutish Robert Baratheon and the cruel Joffrey. All of them had been weak, Jon thought, none of them were Daenerys. None of them knew what justice really was.

She stepped forward.

“Lord Varys.” Daenerys declared. All the pain in her voice had seeped away, leaving only the cold, the desire for all this to end. “I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of my Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons... sentence you to die.”

Nothing happened for a few moments. Varys looked nervously to Jon, to the large sword strapped to his hip, and expected him to unsheathe it.

Instead, the slow rumble of a beast grew behind them in the shadows, stepping forward with slow steps. Jon did not turn to look but could imagine the sight. Drogon, his fiery red eyes standing out in the darkness, rising in the air to defend his mother. Varys visibly trembled, his eyes wide and afraid. 

_ Good _ , Jon thought,  _ be afraid _ . Traitors deserved to die afraid. This man had let others die and men commit treacheries in the name of his ‘perfect realm’.

“Dracarys,” Daenerys said, no anger or hate in her voice. Had it been any other word, Jon would have thought the sound was sweet.

A rumble, a roar. Drogon pulled back from his mother to stand over them both, his giant black wings crashing down on either side of them. In a burst of bright light, Drogon let loose his fiery wrath on Varys. The bald man screamed for a few seconds, his clothes and skin reduced to ash, before collapsing to the floor a blackened shell.

He continued to burn. Daenerys and Jon stood perfectly still and watched. The fire was warm on his skin, and the light from Varys’ burning body made the area around them glow bright.

Behind them both, Drogon and Rhaegal lay down, soft purrs coming from their snouts as Jon turned to look at them. Ghost seemed anxious, but relaxed as Jon leaned down slightly to stroke his neck.

Daenerys still stared at where Varys once stood, lost in thought. He walked to stand directly by her side, and softly grabbed her fingers to hold them.

“The last of the soldiers involved will be executed at dawn. They’ve been burning them on a pyre just outside of Winterfell.” Jon said softly. The pyre wasn’t visible from where they stood now, the night too dark. “I’m sorry if you wanted to do it yourself… I just saw Lady Lyanna and made a snap decision…”

“It doesn’t matter now. It only matters that they can’t hurt anyone anymore.” She replied. She looked away from Varys and to Jon, grasping his hand in return.

“And those that are left?” Jon asked. He wanted to storm into their rooms and drag them from their beds right now but knew he could not rob Daenerys of her own justice. She needed to make a point, and Varys wasn’t it.

“I will not tolerate liars and traitors. We need to be better than that, words need to  _ mean something _ . For the benefit of the realm, for us, for our future.” She replied. Jon smiled at the future. Their child. He wanted things to be better for their child.

“Justice.” Jon blurted out. That was what the realm needed. Not changing kings and fickle loyalties.

“Yes, justice,” Daenerys replied. She had turned to face him properly now, and the dying flicker of flames of Varys’ body danced across her lovely face. “Fire and blood.”

Jon felt the heat emanating off the flames on his skin and agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally two chapters, but I decided to bosh them into one so that it was still from Jon's POV.
> 
> I'd say R.I.P Varys... but fuck Varys. The epitome of fickle. He had his idea of what was good, of what was 'best' for the realm and ultimately for himself. To him, a king was only good if Varys had his ear - and Daenerys is too independent for that.  
Varys had survived mad kings, drunk kings and cruel kings. Were they any good for the realm? No. But then he pledges himself to Daenerys - who spent her life away from court, who grew into the woman she is because of faith in herself. She wants to bring justice, true justice, to the Seven Kingdoms - and where does Varys fit into that?  
Varys did not instigate the insurrection, but knew about it for weeks and allowed it to happen in the hope his problems would be solved. Oh, how wrong he was.


	46. Daenerys XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The frightened child who sheltered in my manse died on the Dothraki sea, and was reborn in blood and fire. This dragon queen who wears her name is a true Targaryen."

Daenerys stood silently on the wooden balcony overlooking the courtyard. She had grown fond of the spot - she could see everyone going about their days, forgetting that she was watching above. She was almost invisible, and Dany found she liked it.

Tyrion leaned on the fence next to her, watching the people go by as well. The Northern lords began to pour into the hall, where Jon was to speak with them and lead them outside. Daenerys eagerly awaited it.

The dwarf by her side sighed. The two of them had not spoken for the number of minutes they had stood there, and Daenerys wondered when she would finally receive her lecture.

“Varys is dead.” Tyrion finally said.

“No, I sent him off to live with an old witch in Volantis…" Daenerys rolled her eyes. "Of course, he’s dead.”

Tyrion’s face was solemn. Dany regretted her joke, if only a little bit.

“Execution by fire… not the Northern way.” Tyrion said quietly.

“Good thing I am not of the North then,” Daenerys replied. Of all the things they could debate, Daenerys loathed this one. For a man who had joined her side in search of fire and blood, he didn’t particularly like the fire part.

She wished to wave him off, to continue her observation in peace, but he continued.

Tyrion cleared his throat. “About last night, your Grace… I must ask… are you-”

“With child? Yes.” Daenerys interrupted. Saying it out loud, freely, filled her with resolve and hope she had not quite felt in years. A future for House Targaryen. “The succession is solved.”

Tyrion almost looked startled, until his eyes dropped in deep thought. Daenerys ignored him.

“And you’re certain? You’re absolutely certain?” Tyrion inquired.

Daenerys flashed him a stern look. She knew what he implied. Would her child be born with dragon scales and maggot eyes? Would they ever draw breath? Every day, her worries grew, but so did her hope. The wicked witch had cursed her womb and murdered her husband - and a peculiar turn of fate compelled her to marry and carry another child.  Perhaps Jon was right. The witch had been an unreliable source of information. 

“Well, I suppose congratulations are in order!” Tyrion smiled. Daenerys smiled back, though not as widely and cheerful as him. She was too busy staring into the morning courtyard below. 

Daenerys folded her arms. Today, Daenerys had donned the last of her white coats - the only one not soiled by blood and war. This one had no furs at the shoulder, no ascot at her neck. Its lining was darker, revealing Targaryen red and black underneath.

She was tired, so very tired. She wanted nothing more than to hide away with Jon in her room and not come out until all was safe. But that was foolish. It was she who had to make things safe. No one else would do it for her.

Tyrion was tittering on, something about baby names and name-day feasts. Dany looked on absent-mindedly as Jon led the Northern lords from the hall and into the snow outside the castle. Bran was wheeled behind him, but the maester stopped before they reached the gates. She needed confirmation, the confirmation Varys had implored her to seek.

She moved to leave, her focus only on the crippled boy below.

“Your Grace?” Tyrion sputtered. He had noticed the lords being herded from the Great Hall, and his face was etched in concern. “The Northern lords… you cannot win their love by killing them all.”

Daenerys stopped. She turned around slowly to look upon her Hand. They had had this conversation before, so many times, too many times. She refused to have it again.

"Is that what you think of me?" Daenerys replied bitterly. "That I would butcher my Northern subjects out of _revenge_? My duty is to protect them. To protect my family as well."

"I didn't mean-" Tyrion sputtered.

“A traitor is a traitor, my Lord Hand,” Daenerys said as evenly as she could, but the venom in her voice seeped out nonetheless. “And a traitor… has no place in this world except as a corpse.”

Tyrion sighed but said nothing in reply. He would not dissuade from her justice. Was she going to end all their lives? Of course not! She could not rule over broken bones and burned flesh. But neither could she leave Winterfell without Missandei’s butchers in their graves. Daenerys glared at him for a moment longer and then turned on her heel to seek out Bran in the courtyard below, and justice afterwards.

Bran was waiting for her right in the middle of the courtyard, one of the maesters having pushed him to the spot. His face was blank, his eyes as cold as ice. Daenerys approached him slowly, but not out of fear.

“You asked for me?” Bran said monotonously. 

“Yes.” Daenerys declared. “Varys said-”

“I know what Varys said.” He interrupted.

Daenerys cleared her throat nervously. She had not had much interaction with Bran, the young Stark keeping mostly to his room and the Godswood. She knew he had been protected by Jaime Lannister during the insurrection, much to her surprise, but the boy seemed to not care in the slightest.

Bran’s eyes shot up, becoming white as snow. Daenerys stumbled back slightly at the sight and saw that Tyrion still stared at her from the balcony above. Bran maintained his searching for a few seconds, his hands twitching ever so slightly before his eyes returned to their usual deep brown.

“Varys did not lie. They met under cover of darkness in Wintertown’s broken inn to build deeds of blood. Their allegiances lie with the old Kingdom of the North, and nothing else.” The crippled boy whispered.

“There is no real Kingdom of the North.” Daenerys retorted. She did not wish to speak ill of Jon’s brother, but of what she had heard, Robb Stark’s campaign had been without real purpose regarding the throne and had collapsed as bloodily as it had begun. As much as she understood the desire for Northern independence, it was a dream. Nothing more.

“They would disagree, your Grace,” Bran replied. Daenerys almost scoffed.  _ And on whom will they place their crown? _ Daenerys thought.  _ When there are none left of any honour to wear it? _

Jon had told her of Sansa’s outburst of loyalty yesterday, and Daenerys had been relieved, for the most part. The girl had not knelt from any true loyalty, Daenerys knew that. Sansa did not love her, but she did fear her. It didn’t matter, as long as there was no one left to threaten Jon and their baby.

Except there was. The traitorous lords and ladies sprinkled within the rest of them outside this very keep. Varys, in his final moments, had uttered complete truth to her - perhaps more truth than all their conversations combined.

“I know what you plan to do, Dragon Queen,” Bran said, interrupting her thoughts.

_ Was it not obvious? _ The last pyre of Winterfell awaited her outside these walls, to be lit with the Queen’s Justice. Her justice.

It was then, Daenerys was curious. “Who do you serve, Bran? Truly?”

She did not expect the answer to be her but was intrigued nonetheless. It was him who had pushed Sansa to the truth, as well as Samwell Tarly. Yet he had given her the truth just now, freely. What game was he playing?

“Not the realm, for I am not Varys... if that is what you imply?” Bran said cooly.

“I was not implying that, my Lord,” Daenerys replied quickly.  _ Don’t piss off the all-seeing bird, Dany _ , she reminded herself. When she had just gained Sansa's support, she did not need to lose another Stark.

Bran stayed silent for a few seconds, before finally answering. “I serve the eyes. The heart lies and the head plays tricks on us, but the eyes see true. All men have need of eyes.”

Daenerys wasn’t sure she even knew what he meant. Did he serve the truth? That was the only explanation that sprung to mind, but she still wasn’t sure. The chair-bound boy baffled her, in ways she couldn’t really explain. How much did he know? How much did he see?

Daenerys thanked him with a nod and made her way to brush past him. He grabbed her wrist tightly and looked up at her with blank brown eyes.

“When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say it began today.” He whispered, but his stare went straight through her.

Dany pulled her arm from the boy in shock.  _ Viserys’ words _ . She stared at him for a moment longer, confusion and ill memories clouding her thoughts. She fled from him before he could say anything else, her steps increasing in pace as she refused to turn around.

Viserys was not much more than a memory now, a piece of a past she no longer felt she owned.  _ Let him rest _ , Daenerys thought. She did not wish to remember the cruel deeds of her brother - at least not today.

When she was confident she was out of sight of Bran, she slowed down. The gates were just in front her, and she knew when she turned left from there, Jon and the lords awaited her. She patted down her braid, a long Dothraki one, and smoothed the wrinkles from her coat. She straightened her posture and walked around the corner, as elegantly as she could muster, towards the grey crowd.

They parted for her small frame, like a rock breaking the waves of the sea. Some glared at her as she walked, others bowed. She looked at none of them.

She kept her eyes on Jon, standing solemnly at the head of the small crowd. Arya and Sansa stood a few metres to his right, but neither looked at her as she approached. In his hand, he held a torch, already aflame.

Behind him was a pyre. It was large, but this time, circular. She had asked Jon for such a layout immediately after Varys’ execution, and he had delivered. Four, five, wooden rings, strewn with the bodies of those executed by the noose, enveloped each other - a single aisle in the middle.

The silence was deathly, and the lords waited with bated breath for one of them to speak. Daenerys turned to face them as she stood by Jon’s side.

“My Lords, I think we all understand why we have gathered you this morning.” Daenerys declared. Another crowd was beginning to form behind the Northern lords, Tyrion and Jaime and a few others among them. “The North must be reborn, today.”

Many glanced worryingly at her words, Lady Sansa included, but Daenerys did not care. It was the truth - let them work out the consequences themselves.

“Lord Ryswell. Lady Glover. Lady Dustin. Lord Cerwyn. Lord Slate.” Daenerys said sweetly. “Walk with me.”

They stepped tentatively from the crowd, glimpsing discreetly at each other as they did. Daenerys wondered, no,  _ hoped _ , that they were afraid.

She raised her eyebrows as they came to a stop, cautious to step closer.

“Walk with me,” Daenerys said again. She turned to walk into the rows of wood, and they followed when the gazes of Jon and the others became too much to bear.

The ground crunched as she walked, the kindling and wood scattered all over the ground between the pyres proper. None of the lords dared to come close to her. Daenerys grazed her hand across the wood, avoiding touching the damp hair of the traitors’ dead soldiers. Amazing, really, how quickly they could go up in flames.

“You have betrayed me.” Daenerys calmly said, turning her head slightly as she walked so that they may hear her voice.

None of them replied. A few coughed nervously.

“You butchered my men. My friends.” She continued, swallowing her grief at the thought of dear Missandei. “You attempted to murder me, your Queen. And your own liege lord. His family. The men laying on this wood died for you,  _ because of you _ .”

“I’ve betrayed no one.” One spat out. Lord Slate, she thinks.

She stopped and turned to face the damned. They were in the middle of the rings, with no further place to go. A few turned around in worry, their lips trembling as her leather-clad men stood in front of the pyre’s aisle entrance with their sharp spears.

One laughed. Lord Ryswell. “As Slate said, we’ve betrayed no one. Take your dragons and return South, woman. Stay at your peril.”

“My peril? What about yours?” Daenerys replied with a smile.

An ageing woman by his side, Lady Glover, frantically grabbed Lord Ryswell’s arm, whispering to him in a panic. Daenerys could not make the old woman’s words out, but by the look on her face, knew they were whispers of fear.

Behind the lords, Jon had finished speaking with the lords that were left. They seemed angry, but not at her, it seemed. At the lords in front of her. They spotted this as well, spotted the murmurs of hatred spilling from the direction of Winterfell.

The older woman at Ryswell’s arm stepped forward, her greying blonde hair falling over her face. “Mercy, Dragon Queen!”

The other lords glared at her, as did Daenerys.

“No,” Daenerys stated, her dragons roaring overhead. “Treason is punishable by death. Should your heirs refuse to bend, and squander their second chance, I will burn your holds and return them to the dirt. But, alas, you will not be alive to find out.”

Daenerys smiled slightly. She took no pleasure in death, but she did take pleasure in justice.

“A bluff, my noble lords! Worry not!” Lord Ryswell bellowed, turning majestically to the rest of the traitors, hands in the air. “The woman can hardly burn us with her dragons as we stand here now!”

He meant to call her bluff, it seemed. Daenerys almost burst out in hysterics, her small smile twitching as the man declared his truth so proudly. The man looked back at her in victory, his face smug and righteous. 

“Begone, madwoman!” The other noble lady shouted.

“We will not kneel for you, Daenerys Targaryen! You shall not scare us into submission as you have with Lady Stark!” Lord Cerwyn yelled at the back.

_You’re not going to serve, my lords._ _You’re going to die._

Jon placed his torch on the first pyre, and in seconds the hot flame raced around the first outer ring. One screamed at the sight.

Another ring, closer this time. The air grew hotter and the men and women in front of her stumbled and panicked. Another ring again, and the noble Lord Cerwyn screamed and struggled as the floor around him set alight and engulfed him.

The whispering woman from before attempted to run past her, seeking her escape. But there was nowhere to go. Daenerys stepped in front of her, her eyes hard as steel, and prevented her from getting past.

The flames grew bigger and wilder around them, catching onto body after body, plank after plank. Lord Ryswell collapsed to the floor in a dying scream, the fire had melted the grey beard from his face, and the woman before her began to weep as she sweated from the heat.

Daenerys looked at her calmly, as the fire caught onto their clothes as well.

Lady Glover stumbled and screamed. Her shrieking pierced Dany’s ears as they grew higher and higher. The rest were yelling as well, but Daenerys simply stood where she was. The flame was warm, and it wrapped around her body in a soft embrace as it destroyed the last of her white coats. 

The old woman clung to Daenerys for a few final seconds, shrieking in agony as her skin flaked away, before finally collapsing to the ground with a thud.

No more screaming. Just the roars of her sons gliding through the morning sky.

Daenerys walked slowly through the flames, her melting leather boots peeling off of her with every step. She emerged from the flames in front of the remaining Northern lords, as naked as the day she was born. The crowd was silent, staring at her in astonishment, the only sound piercing the silence being the roar of the blood flames behind her and the music of her dragons.

Jon knelt first. Then Arya. Then the Northern lords. Then the rest. Was it fear or was it love? Daenerys did not know. Perhaps a mix of both. Perhaps you needed both.

The lords remaining stared at her in shock, and Daenerys relished in it. Even with dragons, many had underestimated her. Never again.

“If you intend to betray me, throw yourself on the flames now!” She bellowed, her voice stronger than it had ever been before.

None moved. 

The Unburnt. Many forgot that title. Daenerys felt sad for a moment when she remembered Jorah was not here to see her do it a third time. Jon looked at her lovingly, his eyes full of as much wonder as Arya’s, who knelt not a few feet beside him. Sansa stared straight at the floor, unwillingly to stare into the flames and the naked woman standing proudly within them.

Smallfolk and Dothraki yelled and hollered, their cheers rising as high as the swirling smoke of the pyre. This was justice, she decided. There would be no traitors in her new world, no liars and cheats to cause nothing but grief and turmoil. If they sprouted, she would rip them out from the root. She must go South. No more clever plans. No more endless war.

This must end in fire and blood, or it will not end at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *me, blasting Fire and Blood in my ears as I write this*  
BUUUUUUUURN!  
[insert that image of Elmo with the fire background]
> 
> Like... my girl ain't crazy. She burns who needs burning and she spares who she can save. Is she embracing the fear a little bit? Perhaps. But she doesn't care, as long as justice is served.
> 
> (a callback to burning the khals? yes)


	47. Jaime VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Sometimes,' Catelyn said slowly, 'the best thing you can do is nothing'"

Jaime sat quietly in the cold library as he awaited the beginning of the war council. Queen Daenerys had ordered it earlier in the morning - she hadn’t even clothed herself when she turned to Tyrion and Jon and demanded the presence of the war council.

_ My, that had been a sight to see_, Jaime thought. A dragon queen, impervious to the flame she so willingly brought upon those who had wronged her. If it weren’t for the horrible screaming from within the pyre, Jaime might have smiled. _ That was what a Queen should look like,_ he had thought. Strong, immortal, unafraid. Nothing like Cersei.

He had spent days thinking of nothing but Cersei, the woman, his sister, who had ordered such destruction on Winterfell. He had defended Bran in the mess of it all, but it had largely gone unnoticed. Jaime didn’t mind too much - no redemption came from bragging about it.

Cersei was going to die, he knew that now. As he sat with his chin on his hand, slouching in the chair as the most powerful poured into this shitty library, Jaime could think of nothing else. Here, they would plan the siege. They would plan her demise. A part of him felt some relief about it, that finally Cersei would be taken away from the power she so clearly abused. But she was his sister still, his love, the mother of his child - no matter how wrong it seemed to everyone else. He did not relish the thought of her blonde head on a pike outside the city.

Jaime shook his head to rid it of the image. 

Still, the guilt remained. He was the brother of the cruel woman who had ordered Winterfell’s massacre, who had collaborated with the now _very crispy _ Northern lords outside. Jaime had stood by that woman’s side for years, his loyalty unwavering even in the face of her murderous ways. Cersei would kill anyone who attempted to steal her crown, and deep down, Jaime knew it would be the death of her. He sighed at the thought.

Others piled into the room now, like water flooding indoors. Pretty much every person worth a damn was in the cramped library. 

Sansa Stark had a face on her like thunder and plonked herself into one of the wooden seats farthest from him. Everyone’s emotions were high, a mix of fear and awe at the Targaryen Queen’s act. He had heard about the red-haired Stark kneeling and pitied her. It was the correct thing to do, of course, but Jaime remembered the tales of Sansa Stark’s abuses at the hands of his family and countless others. Her knees were already scraped raw from years of bloodied horror.

Nevertheless, it was not Sansa’s tense gaze that unnerved him, but his brother’s. The man had relished in the Queen’s burning of the traitorous lords - he had even clapped with the smallfolk and she stepped from the flame. But now? His stare was cold, and the man looked distracted.

“Jaime,” Tyrion said tensely.

“Tyrion,” Jaime replied. Tyrion squeezed the arms of his chair slightly. All of the awe from earlier had drained from his face, and been replaced by a nervousness Jaime had not seen in his brother in a while. “What’s wrong with you?”

Tyrion relaxed immediately. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just… nervous. You’re aware of what we’re about to discuss.”

Jaime nodded. Battle plans. Execution plans. A grim day for House Lannister, and they weren’t even on the receiving end of it.

Daenerys walked into the room. Gone was her flaking white dress of flame, replaced by a sharp black dress, with a red and silver cape at her back. Were it not for the sweet smile on the young woman’s face, Jaime would have been terrified.

“My Lords!” She shouted out. She was happy. Justice was hers and victory was within her grasp at last. The men and women in the room jumped up in response. Etiquette mattered no matter where you were, it seemed. “The time is now!”

She placed herself in the middle of the long table, rather than at either end. The bastard Jon Snow stood right beside her.

The black-haired man cleared his throat and finished Daenerys’ declaration. “We will be moving South with haste, to end this once and for all.”

“Haste?” Sansa interrupted. Daenerys and Jon had refused to sit down, leaving the rest of the lords standing nervously. “We have barely recovered from the insurrection!”

Daenerys glared at her. The two had not seen each other since before she had knelt, and from the suspicion in Daenerys’ eyes, was not convinced of any love or loyalty from the young Stark.

“Will we ever recover? There will simply be another attack. Another threat. The Seven Kingdoms will not know peace until Cersei Lannister has been ripped from her throne and put in her grave.” Daenerys spat out.

Tyrion flinched, Jaime as well. Family was family, after all, and Daenerys Targaryen’s words were harsh. Daenerys noticed their reactions but ignored them. Instead, she turned to look at Jon, a foolish smirk on the young man’s face as she did.

_ Ah, to be young and in love_, Jaime thought, if not a bit jealous. _ Relish in it all you can, before your heart shatters anyway_. That’s what Tyrion had said. Nothing ever lasts. Not truly. Brienne had been ripped from him before he had the chance to prove himself to her, to love her - properly and fully. The Gods were, ultimately, cruel.

“All of the Targaryen forces, a portion of the Northern men, and their associated commanders will ride South,” Jon commanded. “The rest of the Starks will stay here.”

Sansa and Bran nodded, but the little Arya did not. She hung back from the rest of the table, her arms crossed and her stare cold. Jaime could not tell who she stared at so venomously, but frankly, didn’t really care.

“Don’t ride your dragons.” The crippled Bran said.

“Why?” Jon asked quickly, curiously.

“A Kraken is waiting.” He replied.

Daenerys nodded slowly, understanding the warning. Tyrion had spoken bits and bobs of what had become of the boy he had pushed from the tower all those years ago - and hadn’t believed him when he said the boy saw things. _ He only knows the answer if you ask the question, lest he does not speak_, Tyrion had said. Jaime didn’t really know what it had meant.

“Alright, then I will ride south with the armies.” Daenerys declared. Her bravado had faltered slightly at Bran’s words, and her fingers grazed over the table nervously. “Speaking of krakens… Theon.”

Theon’s head shot up, his eyes panicked. He had been standing a few feet behind Lady Sansa, barely noticeable in the sea of people in the room. He cleared his throat.

“You are to lead a boarding party. Kill Euron, save Yara, and stop the Iron Fleet from getting close enough to King’s Landing that they could harm my dragons.” Daenerys ordered. “Decide on a signal to notify me that the fleet can be burned.”

Theon nodded meekly and returned to his spot in the shadows.

“As for the battle plan… I see only one real option.” Daenerys said slowly. “Harrenhal.”

Jaime’s eyes shot up. Balerion the Dread had melted Harrenhal into an ugly ruin, and Daenerys planned to do the same, but with _two_. He sighed nervously at the thought. Perhaps there would be no surrender. Perhaps Cersei would burn in her rooms just as Harren the Black had done three hundred years ago. Every child of the Seven Kingdoms knew the tale. A few of the Northern commanders smiled at Daenerys’ declaration. King’s Landing was to burn.

Jaime, if he were honest, hadn’t expected anything less. If it were him, if he had waited his entire life to reclaim his family’s throne… he would burn to get it too.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said slowly. “I’m afraid I must say it again… we agreed on a siege.”

“No, Tyrion, you _suggested _a siege. Any plans we made for King’s Landing on Dragonstone are long obsolete.” Daenerys snapped back.

“But a siege will likely get Cersei to surrender, and that way we can save more lives, prevent a slaughter,” Tyrion replied frantically.

“Save more lives?” Jon butted in. “I don’t see how starving out a city will _ save more lives _.”

Jaime agreed with them both. If you’ve got dragons, use them - that way the city will fall quicker. But Cersei? She will not change her mind in an instant, will not fear if the city is attacked and burned immediately. No, Cersei’s cowardice would be a long descent. Jaime and Tyrion both knew that. Daenerys glared at them both, and Jaime could see what she was truly thinking. Daenerys did not intend to let Cersei _surrender_. The last pyre of Winterfell was proof enough of that.

“Your Grace! A siege is far more merciful!” Tyrion argued.

“More merciful for whom?” Jaime finally said. 

The whole room turned to look at him - a thousand eyes boring right into his soul. Tyrion glanced at him, annoyed. Either way, the city would burn - whether it be by riots or dragonfire - and the populace would suffer. Even Daenerys eyed him curiously, her deep violet eyes judging him so intensely that for a split second, Jaime thought he saw in front of him the late Queen Rhaella.

“Cersei Lannister has betrayed every person in this room,” Daenerys said evenly. “I understand your desire to protect your family, Lord Tyrion. I want to protect mine. But do you really think I can look the people in this room in the eye if I let your sister survive this war?”

Sansa nodded resolutely in agreement, alongside Arya Stark and dozens of others. Every single man and woman in this room had had their lives altered by the actions of their sister. An eerie silence fell on the room as the words sunk in, for Tyrion and Jaime both. 

Tyrion backed down, his lips tight as if holding back a retort. Jaime understood. Lannister pride, Lannister love. Neither of them wished to see their sister dead - but was there any other outcome?

“I cannot, _ will not_, rule a city of ash and bones. We will march on King’s Landing, and reclaim the Iron Throne as we should have done from the start.” Daenerys declared. “Ready the men. We leave as soon as possible.”

In an instant, people fled from the room. Tyrion’s heated discussion had made things awkward and made Jaime doubt whether his little brother actually spoke with the Queen that often.

Jaime loitered as the rest of the room dispersed. Tyrion remained, as well as Daenerys and Jon. All four looked at each other awkwardly.

“What are your plans with Cersei? Need I remind you the woman is pregnant-” Tyrion began.

“Silence,” Daenerys said. Her voice was firm, but it was not loud.

She walked slowly, gracefully, around the large oak table, her hand grazing the wood as she passed. She stopped dead in front of Jaime. She was far smaller than him, but still, she stood as close as she could. She ignored Tyrion completely, her eyes focused only on him - the butcher of her father.

Jaime had never been this close to her before. He could see every fine line and every little knick and scar that graced her pale face, the flecks of blue and grey in her purple eyes. Twenty-and-three, Jaime remembered, and already she had seen and suffered too much.

“Jaime Lannister.” She whispered, her eyes a cold stare. “May whatever Gods you follow have mercy on your sweet sister. She will find none from me.”

Jaime sucked in a breath, quick and harsh. Behind him, Tyrion sputtered.

“Mercy is often a strength, your Grace, with Cersei-” Tyrion began.

“With Cersei…” Daenerys interrupted, peeking around Jaime to glance at her Hand. “I am not so heartless to execute a woman with child… but after that? Dead is dead. I don’t care for how. I only care for her fear.”

With that, Daenerys glided from the room, the bastard lover of hers following behind her. Jaime sighed, a gloved hand dragging across his face in grief.

It was one thing to ponder the death of Cersei, and another to realise it’s inevitability. Whether it be blade or fire, Cersei would not live to see Daenerys Targaryen’s reign. Jaime closed his eyes, as he absorbed it into his soul. He had sworn to be an honourable man, for Brienne. To uphold justice and righteousness. But by the Gods, it pained him to see his sister on the wrong side of that.

“J-Jaime!” Tyrion grabbed his arm to spin him around. “We need to help her!”

For a second, Jaime thought he spoke of the Queen.

“Cersei doesn’t need to die, Jaime. Viserys and Daenerys fled King’s Landing after its sack, why can’t she?” He continued.

“What?” Jaime questioned.

“If you can get inside, convince her to surrender! Then there is no battle, no civilian deaths. Then we may have enough leeway to get her out of there, get _ your child _out of there!” Tyrion whispered harshly.

Jaime smiled sadly at his brother. He seemed young again, desperate for the love of his family. Jaime pitied him, if only for a moment.

“Cersei doesn’t get out of this alive, brother. You of all people should see that by now.” Jaime replied.

“Maybe I don’t want to see it,” Tyrion whispered back, his eyes glued to the floor. Jaime didn’t want to see it either - but denying something doesn’t make it any less real.

“But maybe it’s for the best,” Jaime said. Frankly, he did not wish to have this conversation any longer.

“For the best? Daenerys spoke of defending her family, the Starks chat about it as well. Why can’t we? She is our sister! Our flesh and blood, and for you something else! You love her!” Tyrion replied.

“Do I?” Jaime snapped.

There it was. Jaime thought he was going to cry. Cersei wasn’t Cersei anymore. He didn’t love her anymore, because the Cersei he saw, the Cersei he thought was real - never really existed in the first place. It took all his strength to finally admit it.

Tyrion looked as if he’d been smacked in the face, his mouth agape in shock. Jaime almost laughed - for all his talk of protecting family, he was the one who had murdered their father.

“But the future of House Lann-” Tyrion began.

“There will be no future. The Lion cub is long gone.” Bran declared, interrupting the beginnings of Tyrion’s speech. 

The two Lannisters turned sharply - neither of them had noticed Bran was in the shadowed doorway. His eyes were like glass, betraying nothing of his true feelings. His hands were clasped gently on his lap, and his stare was cold, almost as if he were staring straight through the two lions of Casterly Rock.

Jaime closed his eyes when the words finally sunk in. _ The lion cub is gone_. That could only mean one thing. Tyrion’s face was still clouded with confusion, his mouth stuttering and wrenching in his attempt to make a reply.

Tyrion glanced to Jaime, his eyes brimmed with unspent tears. Jaime wished to cry as well, his heart breaking for his sister, the mother of his lost child. The grief overwhelmed him. Jaime knew Cersei’s death was certain - but a glimmer of naive hope had remained in his heart that he could at least have saved his child. 

Jaime sighed.

Tyrion stormed from the room, his hands balled into tight fists. His anger and grief were plain to see, but Jaime did not expect such a strong reaction from his little brother. House Lannister was House Lannister, after all. _ It’s just us three left_, Jaime thought, _ and soon there will be two_.

Jaime sat back in the wooden chair, unwilling to leave the solitude of the dark room just yet. Bran still had not moved from his spot in the doorway. The young Stark motioned for the man to his side to push him further inside. Jaime pitied the sight, that the young man could not do so much as move himself into a room without another’s aid. His fault.

As Bran wheeled closer to him, Jaime found it hard to swallow, unsure of what words to say to the boy’s whose life he had destroyed.

“You don’t have to say anything.” The boy said calmly. Jaime’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Was he that easy to read now? “I’m sorry about your sister. She is not a good woman.”

Jaime looked down at the table, avoiding the boy’s blank brown eyes. He was right, of course, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. Jaime picked nervously at his golden hand, unwilling and unsure of how to reply. He looked around the room, lost in thought, as he realised what he truly needed to do, while Bran sat beside him.

“I am not a good man either. I pushed you from that tower.” Jaime said, with as much conviction as he could muster. “I won’t try and justify it, as I have justified that act to myself for all these years. Just know that I am sorry for it, truly.”

Bran and Jaime’s eyes locked together, the world seemingly freezing still as the two became lost in that horrific act. Jaime remembered it, the feel of the boy’s tunic, the pull in his upper muscle as he shoved the young boy and the light that flooded into the room as the spot Bran had taken up in the window was replaced by bitter air. Bran had not _fallen_, Bran had been pushed. And the kingdoms collapsed afterwards.

“Thank you. For being sorry.” Bran replied. For a second, the emotion had flooded back into his face. “But words are wind. It is only action that repays true sins.”

Jaime stared sadly at the young man. An odd response, Jaime believed, but an honest one. Brandon Stark would not forgive his ghastly attempt on his life with a mere sentence.

“I will try. I will try harder.” Jaime said softly, more to himself than anyone.

“There is little else you can do for me, Jaime Lannister.” Bran declared. Jaime had guarded the crippled boy’s door during the insurrection and had defended Winterfell against the army of the dead. He could do something else, could he not?

“Then what else can I do?” Jaime whispered. He was frustrated. He wanted to do better, be better. Be what Brienne of Tarth would have been would she have still walked this earth. He wanted Bran’s forgiveness, and if not that, then at least redemption. He had been a wicked man, still was in some ways - whatever price was left to be paid, he would pay.

Bran placed his hand on Jaime’s golden. Had the Lannister been able to feel through the shiny metal, perhaps the touch would have been tender, comforting. Bran cleared his throat, uncharacteristically so for the soulless and broken boy.

“Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without honour.” The boy spoke. Jaime shifted nervously in his chair. “Tell me, if your precious Renly commanded you to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women and children burned alive, would you have done it?”

Jaime gasped slightly, frightened at the words pouring from the Stark’s thin mouth.

“Would you have kept your oath then?” Bran finished.

The two sat in deafening silence for what felt like an eternity, their hands - one flesh and one gold - glued atop one another.

Bran motioned for the maester standing in the corner to move him from the room, which he did as quickly and gracefully as any obedient soldier. Jaime, however, was left dumbfounded. Confused. Alone.

He had sworn a thousand oaths to a thousand people - to his father, to his mother, to Aerys and Robert and Joffrey and Tommen. To Cersei. Oaths of loyalty and fealty and love. He was to march south alongside the daughter of the King he murdered - and how many of those oaths would he break in the process?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am aware it's been over a week! I hit a HUGE writer's block so I apologise if this is shit lol
> 
> Here we are really slipping into that final stage of Jaime's arc - the acceptance that there is little he can do to protect his sister. I suppose it really highlights the contradiction of it all: that Jaime is to help rid the seven kingdoms of an unworthy and cruel Queen, as any honourable man should do, but break oaths to family and the crown in the process. It definitely delves into that whole concept of "the honourable man" - must you forsake family in order to achieve 'true' honour? or is that honour in of itself, to stand by your family? I suppose this is where Tyrion and Jaime are two sides of that coin, a coin that - quite funnily - has been turned so completely on its head from the start of the story.
> 
> Side note: Bran is saying cryptic stuff for a reason - he's not just flexing that he doesn't mind his own business lol
> 
> Anyway! I will strive to have the next few chapters out ASAP, as they're slightly shorter (sort of wrapping up some stuff in Winterfell before they head south for our good ol' big bad)


	48. Jon X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile."

The winds outside Winterfell blew hard against the old stone walls as Jon stared solemnly outside his window. Below him, outside the walls, the massive armies of Dothraki, Unsullied and Northmen gathered in their preparations to march. They were almost finished, several days have passed since Daenerys’ show of strength and execution of the traitors, and her order to move South to defeat Cersei.

South. Jon could barely imagine it. He knew Dragonstone, and the outskirts of King’s Landing where the Dragon Pit lay, and nothing else. He did not know its people, or its fields or its trees. It was warmer in the South, that he knew, sterner and richer and more ornate. It was not the North, not familiar. He would be no King in the North in the South.

It was these thoughts that scared him. How was he to help Daenerys rule Seven Kingdoms if he had only ever been to two? Perhaps then, he had some understanding of Sansa’s worries about the rule of the North. Daenerys had not lived in the Seven Kingdoms, had left when she was but a babe. Daenerys wasn’t a southern queen, they would say, but a foreign one.

But they were wrong. He knew it, deep in his bones. Hundreds of years would go by without a person like Daenerys coming along, and Gods he would be a fool to let her go uncrowned.

Jon had trusted, revered, and admired few men and women in his life and he was proud to add Daenerys to that list. Jon trusted her deeply. To be his friend, his ally, his wife and his Queen. She would rule these blasted Seven Kingdoms with a firm and steady hand. She had lived her life in foreign lands, and such exile had moulded her into the fierce Dragon Queen she had become. They didn’t deserve her - The Breaker of Chains, Mhysa. The titles she had earned through her love, her compassionate and just nature. But they would have her. He would put a crown on Daenerys Targaryen’s silver head no matter the cost.

He daydreamed about it, for just a few moments, as he stared absently from the window. Dany in a stunning silk dress. A golden crown adorning her lovely hair, as shiny and ethereal as her own silver-gold locks. Perhaps he would hear the sound of their children playing in another room, in their own pretty clothes. He would sit by her side as they did their best to make their kingdoms better - and they would love each other as they did.

A daydream, he hoped, would soon be reality. But he had to make it reality first. He had to march into the lion’s den and first rip the crown from Cersei Lannister. Besiege a city. Kill a queen. It seemed rather simple when he thought of it like that.

Jon watched on as the organised chaos below him began to unravel into the outer keep. The clanging of blacksmiths and stomps of soldiers filled the morning air. Jon breathed in, deep and harsh, as he readied himself to go outside. In a few hours, he would leave Winterfell behind to face the unknowns beyond the Neck.

He turned swiftly on his heel, donning his fur cloak and sword as he exited his childhood bedroom. He did not turn back to look at it, to immerse himself in any sort of reminiscing or nostalgia. Winterfell would be here when he returned, even if it was not as King in the North.

Jon walked briskly through the winding corridors, dodging the quickly moving servants and soldiers as they set about their designated tasks. Winterfell was emptying, and quickly. When the armies leave, so would the high lords and commanders and soldier-generals. They would all be gone by noon, and the winds would blow against a much more lonely castle.

He arrived in the large hall, the once majestic seating area having been converted into temporary storage for swords and shields for their Northern soldiers. A room done with politics and ready for war. On his left, standing by the dark oaken table, stood Arya. She had donned her usual leathery garb, Needle fastened loyally by her side. Winter had grown colder, and more furs lined her shoulders in an effort to keep her small body warm.

“Arya!” Jon called out. Her hand rested on the hilt of her blade casually, and her face lit up into a huge smile as she turned at the sound of her brother’s voice.

Jon walked over to her and pulled her into a hug. He had always loved hugging her, as small as she was, and he didn’t plan to ever stop. It made him feel like a child again.

“Jon! I was hoping I would catch you before you left!” Arya beamed.

“What, did you think I’d leave without so much as a goodbye?” Jon questioned lightly.

Arya chuckled. She knew the answer.

“Have you said farewell to Gendry yet?” Jon asked.

“Why would I do that?” Arya replied quickly, her face pulled into a stoic frown. A fake one at that. Jon raised his eyebrows. He did know some things.

“I’ve seen it. The eyes.” Jon joked, jabbing his little sister in the arm.

“What eyes?” Arya retorted. Jon wiggled his eyebrows, staring intensely into his sister’s gaze, imitating - or rather exaggerating - the love that was shown between the two. Arya slapped him on the arm playfully.

Both of them laughed until it petered off and was replaced by the cold silence of the room.

“It’s all ending, isn’t it?” Arya queried. “Everyone being home. You’ll stay in King’s Landing with Daenerys. Sansa will probably get herself married off to Lord so-and-so. Bran might turn into a bird and fly away.”

“I don’t think he is  _ actually  _ a bird, Arya.” Jon chuckled lightly. His face grew sadder as he realised Arya's words. “But, yes, I suppose it is. It was always going to.”

Arya leaned on the table with very little grace, her hands playing with the bottom of her tunic.

“It’s all going to be so different. After. I’m not sure I’m ready for it. For everything to be… fine.” Arya whispered.

Jon moved to lean next to her, touching shoulder to shoulder so that he could comfort his little sister. How many years had it been since everything had fallen apart? Seven? Eight?  _ Enough to change a man _ , Jon realised.

“What do you think you’ll do?” Jon asked. “After?”

Arya seemed to ponder the question for a few moments as she gazed blankly at the massive stone wall at the other end of the room.

“I... don't know,” Arya finally answered.

“Go off, get married to Gendry, have a bunch of dark-haired and battle-trained children?” Jon joked, a childish smirk on his face.

“That’s not me,” Arya responded sorrowfully, ignoring the joke. Jon knew that. “I’m no Lady of Storm’s End.”

Jon smiled at her sadly. Perhaps she wasn’t, but that did not mean she needed to resign herself to a life of assassination and revenge. There would be a place for her, with him, if she desired it.

“Then you don’t have to be. Be with who you love. Who you trust. Family.” Jon said.

Arya remained silent, her eyes betraying the conflict in her thoughts. Jon sometimes felt the same way too. Normally, home and family were the same place. But after this, they wouldn’t be. Even Jon felt anxious at the idea.

Outside, the shouts became louder, and the horses began to make noise as they left the castle proper. It was time to go. Jon moved off of the table, turning on his heel to face his beloved sister.

“I have to go,” Jon said bluntly. He’d never liked goodbyes.

“Mhm,” Arya replied, dejected. She still wasn’t happy with her orders to remain home. But Jon could not bear the thought of her in another battle, not after he’d seen how horrible she looked after Winterfell.

He pulled her into a hug, quick, tight and hard. Had he been a burlier man, he might have crushed her. Gods, he had missed her, and it pained him to leave her again.

“Jon,” Arya said, muffled by the furs of his cloak. “You’re my brother. Please remember that. No matter your name or your blood, you’re always my brother. My  _ Stark  _ brother.”

Jon’s eyes welled a little at the sound of being called Stark. His one wish, his whole life, was to have a name that was not Snow. Yet here he was. Stark and Targaryen. The relief that washed over him at that moment, the relief that he was accepted by both and loved by both, washed over him like a tidal wave. He smiled and hugged her tighter.

“I’ll think about King’s Landing,” Arya said as she pulled back. Something about the glint in her eye made Jon worry she would not keep her rebellious arse in Winterfell. “I’ll think about where my family is.”

Jon smiled again and grabbed her hands to squeeze them.

“Your loves are my loves. Your family is my family.” Arya finished.

_ Oh, Arya, I can’t wait for you to meet them _ , Jon thought gleefully. He would make Daenerys his wife, and he would soon have a babe of his own. Arya’s reassuring words brought him nothing but joy.

A few commanders walked through the hall from the library, making their way to leave. For the most part, they ignored the private goodbye of the two Stark outcasts. Those who stared saw nothing but love.

“Look after yourself, sister,” Jon said finally. He knew he needed to go. He planted a kiss on her forehead and wiped a tear from Arya’s pale face. A part of Jon knew she’d end up in the South, perhaps earlier than he wanted. “Remember - stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

Arya chuckled, a sweet sound, as childish as the day he left her all those years ago. He retreated towards the exit, flashing Arya one more smile as he did. She smiled back, waving gently.

As Jon passed the threshold of the Great Hall, he sighed. Before him, the last dregs of the armies and their servants filtered out, with only those waving them off remaining. Jon took a second to breathe in the bitter north air, feeling it bite at his lungs as he did. A few snowflakes fell gently around him, the beginnings of a winter storm heading towards the castle. He smiled as it sprinkled on his skin, and for the first time in almost a decade, Jon once again said goodbye to his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing major to discuss except that I couldn't stop thinking when I wrote the line "Besiege a city. Kill a Queen." that Jon was just like: "That's like two things! Easy peasy!"  
\- The only Jon Snow dumbassery I will allow lol.


	49. Sansa VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A thousand years ago, she had known a girl who loved lemon cakes."

Sansa stood proudly amongst the scurried chaos of Winterfell’s main courtyard, watching on as those around her made their move to leave her home. Her face was empty, her eyes staring off absently as the final parties made their way towards her.

They would all be leaving, finally, and for good. The war in the North had been won, and Daenerys had made them kneel as her reward. Sansa’s bitterness had swelled in the last few days - anger and irritation that she had been forced once again to her knees. Now, there were no traitors to stand against, no insurrections to exact justice for. Just her, and the might of the righteous Dragon Queen. One slip and she would be ash. One slip and she would be dead.

A chill ran down Sansa’s spine at the thought.

Theon approached her then, catching her off guard. He looked… somewhat better - a few days proper rest in a bed and proper food having replenished his sunken and sad features after the fright the insurrection caused. She couldn’t blame him. Apart from meetings and dinners, Sansa dared not to leave her room and talked to none but a few.

“Lady Sansa,” Theon murmured. His mouth had quirked into an awkward smile, and his hands fidgeted nervously as he prepared to say farewell.

“Theon,” Sansa replied warmly. 

She stayed still for a few moments, unsure of what parting words to give to her longtime friend. She settled on a hug. It was soft and warm, both of them clad in comfortable furs. She did not wish to let go, lest he left her as quickly as he arrived. Theon smiled at her when he eventually pulled away, his hands resting on her shoulders as his mouth opened.

“I don’t want to draw this out... if that’s alright,” Theon said. “I’m going to go South and rescue Yara, and kill my bloody uncle.”

Sansa chuckled at the bluntness of it all. Her smile, however, was in pride. Theon had declared his intentions with the most conviction, the most confidence, she had seen in years - if not ever. He had been a cocky young man, of course, but this? She liked this Theon. She was proud of this Theon.

“Theon…” Sansa whispered. “Thank you.”

He seemed taken aback, no doubt expecting scepticism at his statement. She, however, held no doubt. Theon would succeed. She just wanted him to go South knowing she was grateful. For helping her, aiding her, staying by her side when he could. She had found none of that from her own family.

Theon gave her one last smile, before scurrying away between the mass of people. She had wanted to say more, but she supposed now was not the time. She would speak with him again, she hoped. When the war was over. When all was well.

Sansa stood alone once again. She looked around awkwardly as dozens breezed past her, paying her no mind. Her jaw clenched as even the Northmen did not do so much as glance in her direction.

“Lady Stark,” A voice called from behind her. Daenerys.

Sansa’s back straightened, and she donned her polite smile as she turned to face the Queen. She stood small next to her brother, _ her cousin_, clad in a dark red dress and furs. Jon seemed to have gone for the matching attire, abandoning his Stark tunic for blackened leather. Sansa scrunched her nose slightly at the sight.

Sansa remembered her etiquette. _ You must curtsy for the Queen, Sansa. Bow your head to the Queen. Smile at the Queen. _Daenerys smiled tensely, her eyes cold as the bitter wind blowing around them. 

“I look forward to the future, Lady Stark. You will be safe under my rule, you have my word on that.” Daenerys said sweetly. “As for any earlier trespasses of yours, I consider them forgiven… but not forgotten.”

They both smiled at each other again, polite as two pretty maidens. _ This woman I have entrusted as my protector offers me nought but idle threats_, Sansa seethed. She bowed again, lowering her head so that she could focus instead on the brown and muddy ground instead of her Queen's face.

“I am grateful for your kindness, your Grace. I wish you good fortune in the battle to come.” Sansa said politely. She meant it, she thought. It was time for the war to end - and Sansa would find no mercy under the reign of Cersei Lannister.

But, Sansa could not shake Daenerys’ words from her mind. _ Not forgotten, not forgotten, not forgotten_. Sansa repeated it endlessly in her head as Daenerys spared a glance at an awkwardly placed Jon before she took her leave to mount her horse. Sansa swallowed her pride, if not for the thousandth time. Better on your knees than dead, was all Sansa could think as she watched Daenerys' braided hair blow in the wind.

Jon stepped to stand in front of her, his hands clasped together. He watched with loving eyes as Daenerys strode towards her commanders, and the silver stallion awaiting her. Sansa looked away, her focus on neither of them, as she braced for Jon’s attack.

“Thank you,” Jon said. “For not telling anyone.”

“Shall I suppose it was a test?” Sansa replied, still on the defensive. Jon’s eyes narrowed at the bitter words.

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.” Jon retorted, not even looking at her.

Sansa’s hand twitched as she almost slapped him. How dare he? How dare he assume her guilt? Jon saw her face grow red and hard, and Sansa swore she saw a hint of a smirk on his mouth.

They both remained silent for a few moments, the tension in the air primed to explode. Jon coughed nervously, anxious to leave and join his Queen.

“King’s Landing is a horrible place, by the way,” Sansa said, shattering the silence.

“I’ve gathered,” Jon replied as he rolled her eyes. Sansa rolled her eyes in response. She could do this all day. “It’ll get better.”

Sansa scoffed loudly. “Daenerys Targaryen is going to improve King’s Landing? Forgive me if I find such a feat hard to believe.”

“You saw that woman walk out of a bloody fire, Sansa.” Jon snapped. “My bets are on she’ll do whatever in the Seven Hells she wants.”

_ So much confidence, so much faith_, Sansa thought. She almost envied him. When was the last time she had believed in a leader as deeply as that?

“Yes, well, she’ll be very busy then,” Sansa said coolly. “I can’t imagine you’ll be North very much.”

“Aye, likely not. I’ll need an acting Lord of Winterfell.” Jon said softly. Sansa smiled at him, her shoulders pulling back as she readied herself to accept her brother’s gracious proposal. “You and Bran shall rule jointly in my name until the war is won. We’ll make definitive arrangements then.”

Sansa’s smile collapsed from her face in a flash. “Bran?!”

“Why, of course, it’s the most sensible solution.” Jon smiled. He knew exactly what he was doing. Depriving her of any real power. “You have experience managing Winterfell… but Bran is the true heir. You'll both be fine.”

Sansa bit her tongue. She didn’t need him to rule. She wanted to stamp her feet and tell Jon he was wrong. Still, after all this time, after all these trials, he did not trust her enough to do it alone.

Jon could see the silent storm brewing on her face as clear as day and stepped closer to her so that he could whisper.

“Sansa,” He said quietly, his words a warning. “Don’t. Consider this a mercy. A far crueller queen would have had your head long ago, not prime you to put you in charge of the bloody North.”

Sansa stood in front of her brother, defeated. A strange calm washed over her as she soaked in Jon’s words. Kneel or die. Kneel or die. Kneel or die. Sansa chose to kneel.

“I’ll do better by you, brother. I promise.” Sansa said, with a similar conviction to that she had heard of Theon not a few minutes ago. She meant it. She wanted Jon to trust her. She wanted to be a noble Stark again. “I… I’ve just had enough.”

“That’s a promise worth making,” Jon replied. He pulled her into a quick hug, planting a fleeting kiss onto her pale forehead as he pulled away. 

When Sansa looked upon his face again, she smiled sadly. They had never been best friends, rarely allies. She had been so happy to see him at Castle Black, to see a familiar face. She had let their relationship get to this point, and she hated herself for it.

“Winterfell is yours when you return. I hope winter will be kind to us.” Sansa said casually. They did not know what natural horrors of winter awaited them - the famines, the cold. Sansa prayed to whatever God that would listen, that the Night King was truly the end of their suffering.

“Aye, winter is here. But after that? It's spring.” Jon beamed with unfamiliar optimism. Sansa was glad to see him smile.

Jon took one of her hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze as he turned to move away. Sansa watched him go, his dark black and grey cloak making him as crow-looking as the Night’s Watch. He mounted his steed alongside the Queen and cantered from the courtyard and into the unknown outside the walls.

Sansa stayed glued to the ground, sadness filling her lungs as she watched Jon and everything else leave again. She had been surrounded by everyone and everything for endless weeks. Politics and murder and battle and war. Now, Theon had left. Jon had left. No doubt others would follow. She looked on as Jon and Daenerys became lost in a sea of leather-black, disappearing from her sight.

She could still hear the soldiers, marching away in the distance. The shouts of Dothraki and yells of horses. But with every passing second, the silence grew, and Sansa remained solitude in the yard as the other ladies who had waved their men farewell - highborn and low - departed.

For the first time in weeks, Sansa felt completely and utterly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's really important to clarify where Sansa's at at the moment. It might seem like she's contradicting herself slightly, returning to her pettiness. That's the point. Sansa had kneeled RELUCTANTLY. Sansa has knelt and so maintains her etiquette and takes the punches because Sansa would rather kneel than be dead. Sansa would love to rule the North in Jon's absence, but she realises now she has a better chance of doing that if Daenerys wins and Jon is South - rather than actively committing treason. Consider it power-playing.  
Unfortunately, Sansa and Daenerys are NEVER going to like each other. Their relationship has reached the point of professional civility. As for Jon, their relationship was never particularly strong - and now it has become strenuous at best. They're going to snap at each other, but family is family. Arya will always remain Jon's favourite sister.
> 
> As I've said before, this has never intended to be an anti-Sansa fic, but neither is it anywhere near a pro-Sansa one. While I don't imagine her bitterness is sympathetic, I hope that it is understandable.


	50. Cersei V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cersei is as gentle as King Maegor, as selfless as Aegon the Unworthy, as wise as Mad Aerys. She never forgets a slight, real or imagined. She takes caution for cowardice and dissent for defiance. And she is greedy. Greedy for power, for honour, for love."

Cersei sat slumped on a velvet red armchair, picking at her fingernails and the skin around them. She watched her precious kingdom with a glass of wine in hand, one that she refilled constantly.

In the city below, the people were starving. She had stopped all food shipments, all trade. What if there was poison? What if there were troops? An assassin? What were a few hundred mongrel subjects compared to the security of their mighty lion queen?

Cersei burst out laughing. She was a lion! Lions did not concern themselves with the opinions of the sheep, do they? These men in the room with her, they were all _sheep_.

They had been trying to speak with her for hours - about troop movements, shipments, noble treasons. She would have none of it. Euron was slouched on a chair, practically asleep. A useless man. Her Lannister men would defend her to their last breaths, to their last screams, and that would be the end of it. 

Just as Qyburn began to conclude his overview of the correspondence, a young boy ran in with another letter. He was slight, malnourished, ugly. A boy of no more than ten-and-five, and a thief no less. On his face was a brand where a hot rod had been struck across his young face. Oh, Cersei remembered that. How fun it was.

The boy looked nervously towards the Queen and bowed, as he should. He handed the letter hurriedly to her Hand and ran away, fearing his next punishment. Qyburn read it and his face dropped.

“Um... Your Grace, I have some unfortunate news.” Qyburn said nervously. “It seems our birds have reported that Queen Daenerys has abandoned Winterfell and is moving South with her armies.”

Cersei paused before the next sip of wine touched her dry lips. She did not blink as she looked out to the city, her hands trembling at the thought of dragons in the sky. When the dark bottle of red wine smashed against the walls violently, all but the Mountain jumped at the crash.

“Why isn’t she dead yet!?” Cersei shrieked at her men, standing from her chair.

So many letters, so many letters. All of them were telling her _lies_. Telling her _treason_. She wanted them all dead! She wanted to see the blood flow from their skin, and the skin melt off their bones. All of them! Daenerys, her bastard, his sisters, her brothers. There should be none left standing in this world but her!

“Your Grace, we’ve already attempted _ twice_!” Euron yelled back bitterly.

Cersei stomped over to him and smacked him square across the face. He lunged forward, intent on her grabbing her throat, but the Mountain stepped in between them both. _ Oh my precious Ser Gregor, _ Cersei thought, _ my only loyal man_.

Euron stumbled backwards into a nearby sideboard at the sight of the decaying man, sparing a glance at an equally as terrified Qyburn. 

_ Cowards_.

“I don’t care.” Cersei spat venomously, standing protectively behind her guardian. “I. Want. Her. Head!”

With her final words, she shrieked again, a vase of roses crashing onto the floor as she wrecked through her office. Cersei spotted the window, frantically looking at the sky like she did every night.

She was going to come. She was going to come and take everything away.

“Y-Y-Your Grace, I know this news of her marching South is not ideal, but we must prepare other options!” Qyburn said tentatively, his eyes wide as he looked upon his Queen.

“I am the Queen! Make her kneel! Make her kneel! Make her kneel!” Cersei shouted before her voice drew to a low and mean whisper. “Euron, I want you to shoot her out of the sky! I want her. I want her so I can drag her through the streets _ screaming_.”

Euron visibly trembled, though he attempted to hide it. Cersei smiled sweetly, but her eyes were wild, unable to keep their focus on one thing in the room.

“Get out.” She whispered again, bitterly. “Do your duties!”

Euron and Qyburn both nodded and fled without another terrified word, as quick as the wind could take them. Cersei’s blood boiled as she watched the cowards scurry away.

Oh, she could imagine it. Everything she would do to that wretched whore. Oh, she could hang her. Beat her. Have her mauled. Have her raped. Perhaps she could give her Elia’s death? Give the Mountain his encore. Cersei giggled at the thought.

In a rush, Cersei pushed past the Mountain, intent on looking upon her Seven Kingdoms. The map was so pretty, so big. Cersei loved looking at it whenever she could. Her Kingdoms. Not Daenerys’. Not Daenerys’!

From where she stood right in the middle of the map, the middle of the room - Cersei felt the whole painted landmass shift. It warped and swam and moved and it became a tangled mess of Seven Kingdoms that she must fix. _ Oh, you need a lion! To untangle you and bring you the heel! _

Someone whispered, quietly in her ear. She turned violently to find its source but was greeted only by her reflection in a far off wall mirror.

She strode over to it. She needed to cut her hair, she realised as she grew closer to it. _ But Jaime likes your long hair, Cersei_, her head said.

The reflection that looked back at her was ghastly. Cersei looked raw and depraved. Her hair had begun to grow past her chin unevenly, leaving it scraggly and dishevelled. Her eyes burned red from lack of sleep, from screaming in the night. She dreamed of bloody blades and dead children. Of corpses by the thousand. Sometimes, the images would make her laugh - until she remembered they were about her.

Cersei grazed her fingers tentatively on the dirty mirror glass, caressing the reflection of her face, her jaw, her neck. She was the most beautiful woman in the world - Jaime had said so himself. He would come back to her, wouldn’t he? He would abandon a foreign whore for _her_, wouldn’t he?

_ And then comes another, younger, more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear_.

Cersei smashed her fists into the mirror, again and again, until her hands dripped red with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Cersei's mad and you know it, clap your hands *clap clap*  
If Cersei's mad and you know it, clap your hands *clap clap*  
If Cersei's mad and you know it, and the show shoulda fucking done it  
If Cersei's mad and you know it, clap your hands *clap clap*


	51. Arya VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm the ghost of Harrenhal, she thought. And that night, there was one less name to hate."

Arya had fled Winterfell in the dead of night, the very same evening Jon and Daenerys had departed with their armies. She had said goodbye to no one, not even Bran or Sansa. She hadn’t turned around to bid her home farewell as she galloped away. She didn’t need to, she had thought. Winterfell had stood for thousands of years, and would still stand when she returned.

_ If she returned _ , she realised, as she rode through the dense woodland around the banks of the Trident. The Twins were not too far to the south, and Arya pondered how best to cross the river standing in her way. A part of her warned her to turn back, to heed the warning of dread her heart was all but screaming out. But the other part? It burned. For blood. For justice. For revenge.

For years she had kept her silent prayer, her vow to end those who had done her and her family harm. What sort of person would she be if she abandoned it at the last names?  _ A merciful one _ , she imagined someone would say.

The ride was lonely. It was often dark and cold, winter beginning to travel south in earnest as she rode down with it. Arya wished someone was with her - Jon, Gendry, even the Hound - but she knew they would try and stop her. Turn around, they would say. Turn around, obey your King, abandon your cause. 

So, it was best for Arya to do this alone.

When her horse grew tired, its hooves dragging along the dirt road in exhaustion, Arya made the decision to rest. She had been on the road a while now, and she was quickly gaining ground. No doubt she would not be far from the army, and no doubt would she overtake them. Arya set herself up for the night - a small sheet to lie down on, and a fire bright and big enough to keep her warm as she slept. 

She couldn’t sleep. The trees above her swayed too harshly. The ground below was too hard, too wet. But, most importantly, Arya could not get the image of executing Cersei and the Mountain from her young mind. It was never specific. Different scenarios and outcomes. Different blood spatters and different screams. Arya would have smiled, if not for the fact she desperately wished to dream instead.

Behind her, a twig snapped.

Arya scrambled from the ground to brandish Needle, pointing it defiantly into the darkness around her. What was here to greet her? A Lannister man? Nymeria and her pack? A fucking bear? Instead, a tall and rough man emerged from the shadow, his face half-burned by the cruelty of a brother on her precious list.

“Sandor,” Arya said breathlessly, the relief of avoiding a fight washing over her.

“Girl,” He replied.

“I have a name,” Arya said quickly. That would have earned her a hit from the Waif.

The Hound moved into the light fully, sheathing his sword, and sat down on the sheet. He kept his distance from the flame but did not flinch. At least not visibly.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The Hound asked harshly. He stared her dead in the eyes as she sat down beside him.

“I’m going to King’s Landing.” She replied blankly. Was it not obvious? Was it not  _ understandable _ ? She needed to do it herself.

The Hound shook his head slightly, his piercing gaze returning to the dancing flames in front of them. From here, Arya had a detailed view of his burned face, of his damaged right ear and sagging eye.

“You’re not even two miles from the tail-end of the army. If you cross the Trident at Saltpans you might be able to overtake them. The Queen is planning on camping just outside of Harrenhal, I believe.” The Hound said gruffly. Her ears pricked up at his advice. Was he helping her? Would he not tell her to change course?

“Thank you,” She said quietly. “I suppose one man rides quicker than a thousand.”

“If you think the Targaryen army is only a thousand strong, you can’t count.” He replied half-harshly, half-lightly.

“It was a bloody metaphor, Hound.” She snapped. She could count.

His only response was to chuckle. The burned side of his face scrunching together into a smile as he relished winding her up. When he was done, he turned his head to look her in the eye again, the light of the flames brightening the unburnt side of his face.

“One man is a quick rider… how about two?” He said softly.

Two? Did he mean to join her?

“Can’t they hang you for desertion?” Arya asked warily.

He baulked with a thundering laugh. “I’d like to see them fucking try!”

Both of them laughed, truly, and earnestly. For a second, Arya felt relaxed. She forgot about the war, about the suffering. Was it the Hound she truly wanted at her side? Perhaps not. But she did not mind. A familiar face was all she needed.

“So you’ll come with me then?” Arya asked quietly, almost sweetly.

“Will you turn around if I don’t?” He replied.

“No,” 

“Then there’s your answer,” He said firmly.

She sighed. There it was. He had come to stop her. He had seen the smoke from her nearby fire and investigated, and the second he saw her face decided he would stop her quest. She wouldn’t let him. Cersei needed to die.

“She’s going to die anyway, you know.” The Hound continued, almost as if reading her mind. “The lords are abandoning Cersei by the dozens, and the Queen has two huge fucking dragons. Cersei is going to die. You don’t need to be there.”

“Yes, I do!” Arya snapped, standing from her position on the blanket sheet.

He looked up at her, but not by much, given her height. He did not chuckle, or smirk, or smile. He simply stared sadly at her, a frown pulling on the muscles of his burned face.

“I have to kill her, Sandor. My list-”

“-Is done. The end of this war will  _ end _ your list. You needn’t do every bloody thing yourself.” The Hound interrupted.

Arya breathed heavily in her anger. She did not want to be stopped, nevermind by him.

“Do you want to kill your brother?” She asked tensely.

“What sort of question is that, girl? Of course, I do.” He replied quickly and angrily.

“Then there’s your answer.” She said coldly. She heaved herself back onto the cold ground, intent on ignoring the man for the rest of the night. If he wished to stay, he could. If he wished to leave, she would not stop him.

For a second, Arya wished Gendry were here instead. She had barely said a farewell to him - simply wishing him luck and the flash of a hug before fleeing into the castle itself. Gendry wouldn’t be so rude. Gendry wouldn't be so harsh. Though, perhaps his words would be the same.

Arya sighed and crawled over to the other side of the fire so that she could lay down. Luckily, she had brought a spare blanket and used it to set up a second bed. From across the fire, the Hound made himself comfy, sprawling his giant figure on her original bed. She rolled her eyes at the sight.

Both of them lay staring at the sky for a while. The night was mostly clear, the stars breaking through the scatter of clouds to illuminate the dark earth. When she looked to her side, the Hound lay wide awake as well, struggling to get comfy.

“Sandor,” Arya called out.

“Hm?” He returned.

“Thank you,” She said quietly. It seemed he had decided to stay.

The man remained silent for a few moments, gazing absently at the expanse of sky above. He turned his head slowly so that his ear rested on the ground. Arya could only make out the upper half of his torso and head, the rest blocked by the fire.

“I don’t hate you enough to let you do it alone,” He said, honestly, earnestly. An unfamiliar sound. Arya smiled slightly at his words.

“I don’t hate you either.” She said. 

_ Not anymore. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very silently getting stressed now as we approach the last 20 odd chapters of this fic. This is the longest thing I've ever actually published (there are A LOT of one-shots in my document folder on my laptop, which I may post after this is done - some of them are like "what ifs" of Game of Thrones, like ooo what if Jon stayed dead and stuff like that - let me know if you'd like to see them!)
> 
> In summary, AAAAAA!


	52. Theon IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So much villainy, it sings a sad song for our age. Did honour die with our fathers?"

The ride had been long and hard. The Kingsroad was filled for miles with the armies of Daenerys Targaryen, unhindered by the Lords of the North and of the Riverlands, some of whom even joined as they passed.

At the start of their arduous journey, Theon had kept to the shadows, riding near the front, but not close enough to the main group of royals and commanders that any attention would be drawn to him. Of course, as they passed the Neck, and the Twins, and steadily approached where they would cross at Harroway, people noticed him more. People talked to him more.

Daris rode by his side proudly, his young face eagerly taking in the sights around him. He had rarely been on the mainland and was no doubt intrigued at its different environment. Theon, however, had had enough. He just wanted to find and rescue Yara, and _go home_. A frown graced his sunken face at all times, miserable under the unbearable pressure of what awaited him.

Yara had looked awful when he had seen her in Lordsport, and Theon worried for what had been done to her by now. Had she been beaten? Cut? Humiliated and abused? Would he find her as she found him - a shell, broken and unrecognisable? Theon shivered at the thought. Daris seemed to notice his sullen expression and rode closer, his dark grey horse brushing against his black.

“We’ll get her, Theon,” Daris said quietly, realising what had soured the Greyjoy man so quickly. They had to rescue her, Theon knew that. The Iron Islands needed her. Theon needed her. If he were to fail again, all would be lost.

“What if it’s another trap?” Theon asked nervously. Lordsport had been a disaster, and it had only taken a bollocking from Daris aboard the ship to realise how bloody stupid he'd been. He'd been too blind to realise he was marching to his own death.

“Then we die,” Daris joked, a childish smirk on his face.

“Thanks for that,” Theon replied quickly and tensely. It made him feel no better.

Their quiet conversation seemingly drew the attention of Jon, who was riding not a few paces ahead of them. He slowed his horse down to ride by their side and smiled as he came face to face with the young Greyjoy.

“Theon, how are you doing?” Jon asked politely. 

Theon’s eyebrows raised at the greeting - he and the bastard had never been close, and time had not changed that. He was far politer than Theon felt he deserved.

“I’m… well enough,” Theon said quietly. He wasn’t sure what word could truly encompass what he was feeling. The anticipation. The worry. The horror. “And you, Jon?”

“I’m very well,” The man said, his gaze pulled instead to the back of silver hair, braided intricately so that it fell down her black dress like the waves of the sea.

Theon smirked slightly at the sight. Love-sick, perhaps, but Theon could not deny love was truly there. How many couples in these Seven Kingdoms could say they married for love? A part of Theon envied him.

“She seems lovely,” Theon said, his manner friendly, “in a terrifying and I-definitely-don’t-want-to-piss-her-off kind of way.”

All three men chuckled at the observation.

“Yes, well, we all saw that bloody pyre,” Daris stated, joining in on the conversation between the men.

_ Yes, we certainly did_, Theon thought. He remembered that day, that pyre, well. He remembered how hot it had raged, how loud the screams were. He had almost run away at the sight but had been stopped by Daris. Theon had been shocked - that a woman so slight and small could emerge from a raging pyre untouched and unhurt. Perhaps you could call that destiny. A fate to be Queen. Theon had no other explanation.

Theon admired and respected the Queen, despite the little time he had spent with her. He had typically let Yara do all the talking, all the negotiating. But he could see the truth. She fought for her people, each and every one of them. She wanted to save Yara, even if she couldn't devote all her resources to it. Theon and Daenerys’ goals were aligned.

Protect the ones you love.

“Lovely and terrifying. I’ll take that for a wife.” Jon chuckled.

Jon’s eyes gleamed with unfamiliar optimism, with unfamiliar love. Theon could scarcely believe that the Bastard of Winterfell was mere weeks away from becoming the husband to a Queen. A King consort, Prince consort, whatever bloody title he'd go by. If anyone had told him that ten years ago, he would have laughed.

Again, if anyone had said he himself would become a disgraced and cowardly eunuch, he would have laughed at that as well. And then probably punched the messenger.

“You’ll be good at it, you know. Being a king.” Theon added honestly.

“I’ll be good at following her lead,” Jon interjected. “I don’t want a crown. I just want her safe.”

Theon nodded slowly, understanding. King's Landing was a pit of vipers, from what he had heard. Jon had never been an ambitious man, and never cruel enough to steal from another, no matter how much Catelyn Stark protested otherwise.

“So… are you going to be Jon Targaryen after this battle?” Daris asked excitedly. Jon looked around nervously, his hands clenching on the reigns of his horse as he hesitated.

“You don’t need names,” Jon replied quietly. “It’s not what matters in the end.”

“Then what does?” Theon asked, confused.

“I don’t know… everything else... Honour. Heart. Family.” Jon rambled.

Theon looked down to admire the long black hair of his horse. Jon was right. Jon was always bloody right. He'd said it on Dragonstone, that Theon's name hadn't mattered and he had barely listened to him then. His train of thought was interrupted by the entry of a fourth man, blonde of hair and missing a hand.

“What is honour, really, boys?” The Kingslayer declared, a wry smile on his face as he cantered past to step in line with their steeds. “What’s it really worth?”

Jon frowned at the Lannister, irritated his wisdom had been so harshly beaten down upon. Daris shifted nervously on his horse, sorely out of place and uncomfortable. He allowed his horse to drift behind them so that he followed instead.

“Are you the one really asking this question, Kingslayer?” Jon asked incredulously, a thick black eyebrow raised as high as a mountain on his forehead.

“Yes, I am,” Jaime responded coolly. “What is it?”

“It’s doing what’s right. What’s good.” Theon interjected, his slight frame dwarfed by the built men who flanked him. Jaime scoffed, which earned him an icy glare from Jon Snow.

“I’m the most dishonourable man either of you knows, am I not? Though you, Greyjoy, aren’t far behind.” Jaime said. Theon avoided the man’s green gaze at his words. “So, tell me… was it honourable for me to kill the Mad King?”

Both men paused. Neither answered.

“Then let me rephrase. Was it honourable for me to prevent a city’s slaughter?” Jaime added in the silence.

Jon and Theon turned slowly to look at the Kingslayer, to see his gaze hard and unmoving. Theon felt remorse for his misdeeds, for his betrayal of House Stark. But this? It was righteousness that Theon saw in the Lannister’s ageing eyes. An unravelling of a righteous secret.

“Wha...What?” Theon asked, confused. “Are you saying Aerys was going to kill the people?” 

“Shall I speak plainly? Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, Protector of the Realm… would rather have left King’s Landing as nought but ash, than let Robert Baratheon have it.” Jaime said harshly. Something in his eyes had Theon unnerved.

Both men processed it slowly. Jaime Lannister had butchered Daenerys’ father on his own damn throne… for good reason? To save lives? Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without honour. Three insulting names for near a million lives?

“Yes,” Jon said quietly, finally. “If the... Mad King wished to murder the people, then yes. Kings protect people, that’s what they’re there for.”

Jaime said nothing, his expression blank. Perhaps that was the question he should have asked all along. Perhaps that was what he should have said to Ned Stark all those years ago when he found him and his bloodied blade atop the Iron Throne. Theon knew the stories, each more elaborate and disturbing as the last.

Theon sighed, more shocked and confused than he had been before. Jaime Lannister had committed unspeakable things, just as he had done. But the guise of honour, the idea of it, was still there. Jaime Lannister faced his truth, faced the battering of his sullen reputation with a smirk on his face and his head held high.

_ Yet here I stand, a coward. A craven_, Theon realised. Would he ever have the strength to protect people like Jon and Jaime did and do? Would he have the strength to protect Yara?

“Do you know what he was yelling, as I drove my blade into his back?” Jaime continued. His monologue had caught the attention of the Queen, who had drifted back slightly from her position at the front and had peeked over her shoulder to listen. “Burn them all. Nothing else. Just burn them all.”

Jaime’s face was solemn, lacking the bold pride of before. Daenerys’ face, however, Theon could not make out, but from her lack of reaction, Theon suspected the Queen already knew. Already had an idea. She was not her father, as far as anyone could tell, and the world would be bloody thankful for it.

“So, yes, Lord Snow. That’s not what Kings are for.” Jaime said bitterly. “How can I be expected to uphold my duty as a knight, when Aerys couldn’t uphold his duty as a _ king_?”

Daenerys’ face sank, her eyes dropping to her silver mare before she sped up and rode away, rejoining her Unsullied commander and Ser Davos mere paces ahead.

“For what it’s worth, a blade is a mercy for such a madman,” Jon said sadly.

“Hm, perhaps it is,” Jaime said slowly.

Theon looked dead ahead as silence fell on the three riding men, all of them lost in their own minds, their own thoughts. 

Theon had no honour. He had left it in the dirt when he stole Winterfell from Robb. It had burned away with those farmboys. He could not reclaim it any longer. He could not put it back together. Theon was beyond that, he realised.

A bastard born of the dishonour of a noble lord, a knight discarded due to the dishonour of his actions, and a lord dishonoured by his own damn greed, all riding side by side as the day drew to a close. Both of them are more honourable than he, deep down. Yara was Theon’s last hope. Protecting his family was his last hope.

  
_ Should I fall, _ Theon declared silently to the world, _ let it be with at least a shred of fucking honour_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In summary:
> 
> Jaime honestly doesn't give a shit who knows about the Mad King stuff now - he's well and truly at the point where's he like... "bitch I am TRYING to be a good person, can y'all just listen to this shit I've been keeping secret for 23 years!"
> 
> Jon is having a crisis but Theon is clueless because he doesn't know.
> 
> Theon sees these two men being better people than him - despite one being a renowned oathbreaker and the other a bastard (remember, everyone distrusts bastards as a rule of thumb) - and is like oh fuck I better get my ass in gear and save my sister.
> 
> Jaime, Jon and Theon in a scene together? D&D robbed us of the dynamic. D&D robbed us of Arya and Daenerys too and u bet ur ass I rectified that in the FIRST chapter.
> 
> (side note: chapters are coming as I write them from this point onwards - with one exception - as I seem to be outpacing myself with editing compared to writing lol)


	53. Jon XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair."

Jon watched on as the armies Daenerys had gathered began to make camp in the outskirts of Harrenhal. This close to the capital, they wished to avoid having indefensible encampment, and so the minor detour to Harrenahl was planned. Jon had never been here, only heard stories. It looked bloody ugly.

Grotesque towers burned black by dragonflame, crumbling walls and half-melted ramparts. True evidence of the power of the sky. A part of him admired it - the lasting legacy Daenerys’ family, _ his family_, had left on the realm. Didn’t mean he couldn’t find it ugly though.

The tents shot up as quickly as lightning due to the brutal efficiency of Grey Worm’s Unsullied. Jon had been happy to get to know many of them on the journey down and relished in their tales of the Unsullied of old. The three-thousand of Qohor, against Dothraki numbers eight-fold their size. And now here they were, side by side, united as one. Fighting for Daenerys.

He could scarcely believe it.

Sometimes he would sit back and think, just how did a girl with nothing but a disgraced name, become the most powerful woman this side of Asshai in a matter of years? Jon knew the story, of course. Daenerys had told him of it eagerly on their boat to White Harbour, and Jon had drunk it in just as enthusiastically. Dothraki Khaleesi. Mother to dragons. Destroyer of Slavery. Had it been any other woman, he would have not believed a word of it.

Jon could see her in the distance, riding into her camp. To the untrained eye, the small swell of her stomach was near unnoticeable, hidden under black coats and leather. Jon smiled at the thought, just as he did every time he thought of it. A little boy or girl to call his own. They could name him after Daeron the Young Dragon, or name her after Visenya, the great conqueror herself. Or, he could name him Robb. Or Arya. Or Ned. Or Lyanna.

But, as he said to Theon, names were of no importance. As long as the child smiled, and danced and played. As long as they were loved, Jon cared for little else.

Jon spurred his horse towards the camp, weaving his way through the masses of soldiers with practised skill. He made his way to the camp’s main section, where his tent would be set up alongside the rest of the advisors and commanders. He wouldn’t use it, obviously, preferring to sleep alongside Dany wherever possible.

He dismounted and tied his horse to his designated post and walked in strides to where he knew Daenerys had already retired. She was not fond of evening meetings, the interruption of advisors into what she considered her personal time. The only downtime she could claw back in such a circumstance. 

Tyrion was hovering outside, as usual, asking for the guard to drop off the reports. Jon glided past him but paused for a brief moment so that Tyrion could place the stack of papers in his hand. He earned a grateful nod from the dwarf.

Jon pushed inside the tent, the outside guard paying him no mind. Their relationship was far from a secret anymore - the only thing kept under wraps was his own identity, and the news of their child. _ When you are King_, Daenerys had said, _ and then no one can hurt me and our baby with it_. 

Daenerys sat in a basic wooden chair on the far side of the tent, a table in between him and her. In her hands was a strap of jet black leather, a small iron loop in its centre. When his eyes were drawn to it, Daenerys felt his stare and looked up.

“It’s hers,” Daenerys said sadly. “I keep it with my things. I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to forget.”

Jon moved to her side in an instant, placing the papers on the table and taking a knee on the rough floor next to her chair.

“It’s so much worse at night, Jon.” She continued, her voice cracking with unspent tears. Normally, Missandei would join Dany in her room to undo her braids and offer her counsel, all with a lovely smile on her face and sweet words of wisdom. Even Jon missed her kind presence, and he had not even known her as closely.

Daenerys’ fingers rubbed on the rough leather, her thumb caressing the chain which bound Missandei in another life. Her eyes brimmed with tears, as they had done so many nights before. She mourned. For Missandei. For Jorah. For Viserion. Everyone. It pained Jon to see her so sad.

“She never wanted _anything_. Not wealth, or lands, or titles. She desired no power. She wanted nothing from me but my friendship, and in return, I let her sacrifice her life.” Dany said through soft tears.

“Shh… don’t talk like that. It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.” Jon said quickly. “Such an act… makes Missandei the bravest woman in the world. A true and loyal friend. We won’t forget her.”

Daenerys smiled sadly, not quite reaching her eyes. Jon grabbed her hand tightly and squeezed, the greatest comfort he knew he could give. To hold, and be held.

“I’m scared, Jon. We get closer every day.” She said quietly.

“I’m scared too,” Jon said honestly. “But think about what comes after. Your kingdom. Our child. The future.”

At that, Dany’s smile was earnest, though the tint of sadness in her eyes remained. This battle was not all doom and gloom like Winterfell had been. Their deaths were not all but certain. If anything, Cersei’s support was crumbling, if the reports were anything to go by. The Riverlands had all but declared for House Targaryen, as well as an ever-increasing number of Houses in the Reach. No, it was not doom and gloom, because, after this last fight to come, there was hope. Daenerys would have children. They would marry. They would rule.

“I can’t promise you everything will be fine. I’m not that stupid, contrary to popular belief.” Jon chuckled, in his attempt to lighten the mood. “But I can promise that I love you. And I can promise you that King’s Landing hasn’t got a clue what’s coming for them.”

“I don’t want a bloodbath.” She said firmly. “They won’t love me if I kill them.”

“I know,” Jon replied. “The only blood we need is Cersei’s.”

Daenerys sighed loudly, leaning back into her chair. “I don’t even care about how. I just want her gone as quickly as bloody possible.”

“You want a quick death for her?” Jon said. Even he was surprised by that. He hadn't agreed when she had told him of her crucifixion of the masters of Meereen, but he certainly didn’t blame her if she wanted an encore for the lion queen.

“Oh, I don’t know,” She stammered. “I… I just want her to be afraid of _something_. I want to start my reign. To make the Kingdoms beautiful.”

Jon nodded in understanding. He liked the sound of it if he were honest. Fire and blood were their words, but they needn’t let them rule them all the time. Though, he knows how they will feel once they see the blonde-haired woman in a week or so?

“That sounds perfect to me.” He said with a smile. “But, please be careful… in your condition, so high up…”

“Jon, don’t.” She replied quickly and firmly, her eyes harsh. “I have battled and suffered and endured for years on end so I could bring about this day. When I take that throne, I’ll be doing it myself.”

He understood. It didn’t make him worry any less.

“I know. I know.” He said quietly.

She smiled at him again, remorseful of her harsh tone. She leaned forward to grasp his face softly in both hands, her slender fingers tangling in his black beard.

“You are such a good man, Jon. You mean so much to me now, I can hardly comprehend it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Dany whispered lovingly.

“You’ll never find out.” Jon declared with a sweet smile. He’d be damned if he abandoned her, now or in the future. The North didn’t need him - someone else could have it, for all he cared.

She placed a soft kiss upon his lips, her hands locked in position so he could not move away. He could stay like this a thousand years, he realised, locked in her sweet embrace.

An Unsullied guard appeared in the doorway, though neither he nor the Queen jumped away at his presence. Behind him, Jon could see Davos and Tyrion hovering just outside.

“My Queen, a lone rider.” He stated. “Lannister banner. Banner of peace.”

The two looked to each other briefly, before both stood and brushed themselves down. No more Jon and Dany for now - they were Queen Daenerys and Lord Snow instead.

Jon let her lead the way as she burst through the tent flap and demanded information. None seemed to know who it was, or why their banner was of peace. Jon prayed it was Cersei’s surrender.

Daenerys mounted her silver, noting that she would not stand while her enemy sat upon a horse. Jon joined as well, alongside her advisors. They rode out in the mud, just to the outskirts of the camp. The night was beginning to fall on Harrenhal, the evening growing greyer with each passing second.

Jon spotted the banner. A Lannister lion, on a crimson red back. The sight almost made him want to be sick. Daenerys brought her horse to an abrupt halt as the rider came into view.

He, too, was clad in black, an ageing head of brown hair atop an equally as ageing face. His clothes appeared like that of a Maester, but his lack of chain worried Jon. An absent chain signalled either a stupid or cruel man. He hoped for the former.

“Qyburn?” Tyrion called out, his eyebrows raised.

Jon recognised him from the Dragon Pit, his strange eyes practically admiring the severed hand of the wight they had brought.

“Queen Daenerys,” The man replied. “A pleasure.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at the older man. This was not a social visit.

“Lord Qyburn, state your business, if you will, then be on your way,” Tyrion said calmly. The dwarf grasped the reins of his horse tightly, his saddle having been adjusted so that he could ride with greater ease. 

“I am here to discuss surrender,” Qyburn replied. All four of them - Daenerys, Jon, Tyrion and Davos - glanced at each other in surprise, in shock.

“Well, that’s great news. We can avoid a battle!” Tyrion said enthusiastically, his eyes wide with excitement.

“You have misunderstood me, my Lord,” Qyburn said slowly. “I mean yours.”

Jon’s glare grew fiery hot, his frown deepening at the Hand’s words. Daenerys, on the other hand, burst out into a peal of laughter near hysterical. Qyburn looked at her awkwardly as she giggled atop her silver stallion.

“By the Seven, you’re serious!” Daenerys shouted, as her laughter died down. “Is she _ insane_?!”

From the uncomfortable look on Qyburn’s face, and the hesitant look in his eye, Jon realised the answer was quite possibly yes.

“Lord Qyburn, _ look behind me_. Tell me that is not the largest host against King’s Landing you’ve seen since Tywin Lannister sacked the capital. My losses at Winterfell still left me with an army that dwarfs your own! You're losing the support of the nobles by the dozens!” Daenerys yelled near menacingly. “_Look at the sky_.”

As if right on cue, Drogon and Rhaegal flew harsh and low against the trees, roaring as they soared by. Drogon's shadow cast their small clearing into darkness, and Jon could barely make out the fearful look on Qyburn's face as he kept his thin mouth shut.

Daenerys sat proudly on her horse, her eyes narrowed in a stare so sharp it was almost deadly. Jon stayed next to her as he saw her grip tighter on her reins. This meeting may have just been a ploy to unnerve her. To make her doubt herself.

_Don't let it, Dany._ He wished to say aloud.

Tyrion and Qyburn stared at each other nervously, as Daenerys processed the sheer stupidity that had just been conveyed from Qyburn’s mouth. Jon couldn't believe it either. A _Dragon Queen_ camped barely a week away from the kingdom's capital, an army firm in their belief that Cersei Lannister must die. In what world would Daenerys Targaryen bend the knee?

“M’lord, I believe that is a resolute and astounding _no, _” Davos added graciously. “I suggest you leave.”

_ More like a resolute and astounding fuck off_, Jon thought. Cersei either had an extra army hidden in the sewers or she was truly that delusional in the belief she could hold off not one, but two, dragons. If this was to be Cersei's last attempt at diplomacy, then a battle was unavoidable.

Qyburn took off on his horse, looking afraid as he disappeared into the shadowy trees behind him. Jon almost felt bad for the man. If his face had betrayed the truth, that Cersei Lannister had grown paranoid and crueller in their absence, then Jon could not imagine how the man suffered at her side.

Daenerys galloped back to the camp practically in the same second, an irritated look on her face, no longer tolerating the cold air and brisk wind. Tyrion watched as she went, his face etched in concern. Jon held back, just as the dwarf did.

“You saw that laugh… didn’t you?” Tyrion questioned. “It was very…”

“Lord Tyrion,” Davos interrupted. “If the next word out of your mouth is mad, then just keep riding. If Daenerys Targaryen is mad, then I’m the bloody Queen of Meereen.”

Jon chuckled at the image of Davos in soft silken Essosi dresses. Jon could understand Tyrion’s concern - she had suffered much these past few weeks - but it was he who remained closest to her. If she were mad like her father, Jon would be first to fucking notice.

"Forgive me, my Lord. It was merely an observation." Tyrion replied politely. "I simply worry for the battle ahead. The effect her condition may have."

"Irrelevant, Lord Tyrion," Jon interjected. "She is perfectly fine."

Davos' eyes narrowed in confusion at the exchange, but the loyal man said not a word. Jon didn’t even spare another look at Tyrion before riding off alongside Davos. The journey back, not as haste as the journey there, was somewhat pleasant. The trees were a tall pinewood, and its leaves had not yet shrivelled and died in the cold. Though, the cold was nowhere near as harsh as the North, as harsh as home. Tyrion had followed them for a while, his face solemn in worry, before diverting away as they reached the main set of tents. To Jon's side, Davos rode calmly.

“I've read your nightly reports for you, m’ lord, if that’s alright,” Davos mentioned. Jon didn't mind - it helped the older man with his lettering and meant Jon could devote his time to other tasks. “Most of the lords are anticipating a swift victory. They’re preparing to come to the capital already.”

“Good,” Jon replied. "Though overconfidence is a killer. We treat this as we would any battle."

“You're right. Though I still have plenty of faith in our Dragon Queen that our victory will be swift.” Davos smirked. He and Daenerys had grown close during the journey down, often striking up a conversation with the other as they rode nearby. Jon couldn’t blame her, he was an easy man to talk to.

“As do I,” Jon whispered. He had caught sight of Daenerys amongst the camp’s inhabitants - her lovely moon-coloured hair blowing in the breeze. Davos caught his line of sight and steered them towards her as they dismounted their horses. 

She looked brilliant, as always. Her black coats suited her, more so than the grey or white. Jon admired the curve of her smile, the glint in her eyes, as she struck up a conversation with the likes of Gendry and Grey Worm. Her expression had calmed considerably, the hasty pace of her horse no doubt clearing her mind as she rode back.

Jon smiled as he thought about what she may look like in her coronation gown. Would it be black as well? White? Blue? No matter what she wore, Jon knew she would look beautiful, that she would look strong. And he could tell the whole world then that she is his. Their child is his. They were still a distance from her when Jon felt the overwhelming urge to blurt out an unspoken truth.

“She’s pregnant, Davos,” Jon said quickly, his voice hushed.

Davos practically tripped over his own feet as he stopped dead in his tracks. “What?!”

Jon, with child-like enthusiasm, smiled at his older friend and declared it again. Davos was wide-eyed, shocked, but his smile grew with each passing second until he pulled the young Snow into a crushing hug.

“You two… you’re going to be brilliant. I’m happy for you, lad. Truly.” Davos said while resting a firm hand on Jon's fur-clad shoulder. Jon noticed the glint of sadness the greying man attempted to hide. Grief for a lost son.

Jon glanced over at Daenerys again, who caught his stare and returned it with a loving smile. The meeting with Qyburn had likely pissed her off to no ends, but she was always so good at throwing herself into other things to distract herself. 

“Don’t you worry she’ll be… you know… when you _ actually marry_?” Davos asked innocently. “The High Septon might have some words about...”

Jon stopped listening. He didn't even know who the High Septon was anymore. Instead, his gaze was transfixed in front of him, lost in the sight of her. Daenerys stood frozen on the further down the row of tents, her eyes shining brilliantly in the torchlights slowly being lit around the encampment. She looked beautiful. Strong. Bold.

“Then I’ll marry her now.” Jon declared.

“Wait, what?” Davos asked, confused, but Jon had already strode from his friend and towards her. 

She raised an eyebrow as he did, a small smile of confusion etched on her face. He grabbed her wrist, as gently as he could, dragging her with him as he broke out into a run. Harrenhal still had a heart tree, did it not?

“Davos, Grey Worm, follow!” Jon yelled excitedly.

"What about me?" Gendry shouted from behind them.

“Jon, where-” Daenerys could not finish her question before he sprinted faster.

Both of them laughed as they weaved through the crowds, earning themselves glances and stares as they crashed into unaware bystanders. Behind them, Davos and Grey Worm stumbled in their pursuit. Jon could only focus on the castle, on the awful looking tree that no doubt lay inside. A heart tree was a heart tree, at the end of the day.

Dany’s hair flowed behind her like streaks of silver, and Jon relished in the sight. Her smile was playful, that of a young girl, _ a young woman_. For that is what they were. Young.

The tree was not a nice sight, its face more grotesque than the one in Winterfell, deep marks carved into its bark sides. Jon didn’t care. He would do this with her a thousand more times in Winterfell if she were that bothered. He brought Dany to a halt and spun her so that she faced him, her bright eyes meeting his own.

“Marry me.” He said firmly.

“I thought we said-”

“I don’t care.” Jon interrupted. “We were being stupid. I should have made you mine in the Godswood the second we got to the second.”

“Oh, that early? How bold of you, _ Lord Snow_.” She smirked.

Davos and Grey Worm caught up by then, the older man slightly more breathless and flushed as he keeled over. The man was a fighter, not a runner, it seemed. Grey Worm, however, was in complete confusion.

“So, is that a yes?” Jon asked tentatively. The fear that she would reject him, even if just for this moment, washed over him like a wave.

Instead, she smiled, wider and brighter than anything he had ever seen.

Jon turned to the two other men excitedly, his heart beating harder than it had ever done before. “Officiate, please!”

“Oh, s-shit. I don’t know what I’m doing, but okay!” Davos ran over, a smile spreading on his own face. Grey Worm’s smile of confusion said the same thing.

Jon whispered the rules of the ceremony quickly to the two loyal men, before rejoining Daenerys at the tree, his heart as full as it could be. Davos cleared his throat. The small forest around them glowed lightly with moonlight, as they all got into position, piercing through the trees and onto the ground. Daenerys took a few steps back from Jon, under the pretence of ceremony. 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Davos asked, the smile on his face clear as day, despite the fact Jon stood with his back to him.

Jon watched as Daenerys stepped forward alongside Grey Worm - now the man she could consider her oldest friend. A sad thought, but Jon pushed it from his mind quickly as she watched Dany’s eyes well with tears.

“Daenerys, of House Targaryen,” Grey Worm called out, though he paused for a moment as he tried to remember the words Jon told him to say. “Comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Jon stepped forward and sucked in a deep breath as he made the decision to speak aloud his second, unspoken truth.

“Aegon, of the Houses Stark and Targaryen, Lord of Winterfell and of the North. Who gives her?” Jon declared.

All four stood in silence for a few moments - the shock overwhelming both Davos and Grey Worm. Daenerys’ smile was joined by a stream of tears down her face. Jon stood proud, his hands clasped behind his back. Snow, Stark, Targaryen: he was all of them, and none at all. Let him marry his love under his true name. Let him at least not lie to the Gods who would watch over his wife and child.

“Grey Worm… Torgo Nudho… of the Unsullied, who is her commander.” Grey Worm said with a firm smile.

“Queen Daenerys, do you take this man?” Davos asked quietly, nervously.

At that moment, Jon felt as if all the sounds of the forest fell silent, as they awaited the Dragon Queen’s answer. She looked at him in the eyes, her own eyes spilling with tears of joy. Tears of love. She swallowed, once, then twice - desperate to be able to get the words out of her throat.

“I take this man.” She replied clearly. Finally.

Jon smiled, just as Daenerys had done, tears falling from his eyes. They all laughed, happily and heartily. A cheer from Davos. A hug between the two witnesses. Daenerys wrapped her arms around his neck to kiss him, hard.

_ My wife, my wife, my wife, _ Jon could get no other thought from his silly head.

“Jon, what the fuck?” Davos exclaimed. "_AEGON?! Targaryen!?_"

"By the Lady of Spears, I'm so confused." Grey Worm added.

Jon had almost completely forgotten about that as he had held Daenerys in his arms. 

“Well… Rhaegar and Lyanna-” Jon smirked as he looked down at Dany's smiling face. “Actually, Davos… it’s a very long tale, that I’m sure Bran can tell you very concisely and cryptically once we return to Winterfell.”

The four of them laughed, and Jon realised it was the sound of happiness. What had he done to earn this? A bastard boy, a man of the Night’s Watch. He had played tricks and battled a lover. He had made mistakes, killed hundreds. Now here he was, married to Daenerys, to the strongest woman in the world.

They would face the unknowns of tomorrow. The unknowns of the battle. They would stand side by side as they rid the world of injustice and of war. They would bring their child into a new world, a better world.

  
And they would do it _together_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wasn't blasting a Jonerys theme as I wrote this, but "Offred gets taken away" from The Handmaid's Tale (recommend it a million!)... which for some reason was... better? Like it was so moving and light that I almost cried lmao.
> 
> In other words, heart eyes. Northern wedding, as they should have done, but were too busy pussy-footing about with politics to get their asses in gear and just do it.
> 
> ALSO, that quote! *chef's kiss*


	54. Jaime VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Give me sweet lies, and keep your bitter truths."

The camp was ecstatic. The news of the elopement spread through the soldiers like wildfire, cheers and congratulations all around. Naturally, the Dothraki started the celebrations. Weeks on end of damp nights and hard riding had erupted into dancing and drinking. A party for the Khaleesi, Jaime heard one of the bloodriders say.

For this night, the battle ahead, the very war they fought, did not exist.

A few terrible renditions of the Bear and the Maiden Fair echoed throughout the camp, the version in front of Jaime certainly the worst. He couldn’t help but smile, though, as he leaned on a block of wooden crates, lurking in the shadows.

Jaime crossed his arms as he observed the celebrations - the dancing, the singing, the drinking. The Dothraki men riled up the crowd as heartily as they could, fighting every now and then. It was likely for the best, that the women were following them down at a much slower pace, lest the whole party become an orgy.

Daenerys and Jon approached the main gathering, a medium-sized section of fires and tents that circled the main bonfire. They were hand in hand, smiling their damn heads off. Jaime couldn’t blame them. They rushed to join in the singing, the voices now dominated by an overly drunk and newly named Lord Baratheon.

Jaime’s half-smile dropped as his thoughts moved to Brienne. He wished she were here. He wished she was standing by his side.

But no, she was gone. Jaime was to stand alone.

Ahead of him, the silver-haired Queen nudged at her husband to dance, her hands pulling on him to drag him from his quickly-found seat. Snow looked reluctant, but the joyful look on Daenerys’ face clearly made him change his mind. He danced awkwardly, with as much grace as a piece of wood. The Queen all but made up for it, though, spinning around him and cheering every time he got a step correct. Jaime laughed as a few of the men tripped, the dance evolving into a group one he had seen frequently in the Riverlands. Few knew the steps but did not seem to care.

An older man came to stand next to him, his beard as white as fresh snow. Ser Davos, he realised, as the man took a swig of his drink.

“Not celebrating?” Davos asked.

“I am. But it’s better if I'm out of the way.” Jaime murmured tensely.

“Suit yourself,” Davos replied. He took another swig of his drink.

Jaime sighed. It wasn’t his place to dance amongst the Targaryens and the Starks, the Riverlords and the Essosi. He was a Lannister, kin of the enemy, just like Tyrion was - who he could see had retired to his own tent amidst the madness, likely feeling the same way.

He was happy for them, believe it or not. Jaime had loved Cersei all his life. He had wanted to marry her, make her his noble wife as he ruled over Casterly Rock, just as the Targaryens did. But no, it wasn’t meant to be. Cersei had never loved him, not truly. Cersei had never looked at him the way Daenerys looked at her husband right now.

House Lannister. A family in name only. A brutal father, a long-gone mother. A set of twins so in love with each other yet so cruel. A dwarf, defector of his own House to another. A brother, who then followed.

“Ser Davos, a question?” Jaime asked. The man returned a nod. “What do you think House Lannister deserves?”

“My… that is a loaded question, Ser Jaime,” Davos said nervously.

_ Please just answer it_.

“Cersei is beyond redemption if I must say so bluntly.” Davos continued. “But you and Lord Tyrion… your reputations may take lifetimes to repair.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” Jaime prodded.

“Ask again in a week,” Davos replied quickly.

Jaime sighed, harsh and long. He had done nothing but think, all the way down the Kingsroad. What was honour? What was love? Do people truly get what they deserve? Jaime had no answers for any of them. If the world was as just and right as the zealots may say, why must the Gods inflict cruelty upon the undeserving? The people were suffering in King’s Landing. Starving, brutalised, in fear. His sister was inflicting that on them.

And as selfish as the thought may be, Jaime was suffering as well. With each passing day, the red towers of the capital threatened to loom on the horizon. The day would come where he must stand aside as his sister, his lover, the mother of his children, is dragged kicking and screaming from the Red Keep. His dreams were filled with her death. Would she be hung? Burned? Crucified?

The thought of her dead body, no matter how deserving such a fate may be, made him feel sick. Cersei’s reign was drawing to its bitter end, he knew it. It felt like just before the Sack - as the Mad King prepared to make his last stand. There was nothing he could do to stop any of it.

Davos placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, the gesture unfamiliar to the Lannister. He had spotted the turmoil in Jaime’s eyes and opened his mouth to speak.

“I understand, Lannister. There’s nothing worse than feeling out of control.” Davos said, his voice kind. Kinder than Jaime thought he deserved. “Sometimes, we just have to let the waves pull us along. If they demand we swim, we swim. To drown, we drown.”

“How very poetic of you, Seaworth.” Jaime japed.

“Thank you, Ser, I’d been brushing up on my books in Winterfell.” Davos chuckled.

Tyrion emerged from his tent at this point, his hands clamouring for the pouring ale as quickly as possible. Jaime saw Davos’ eyes stray to him.

“Sometimes, we must do what’s best for everyone. _ That man_, your brother, butchered my son at Blackwater.” Davos exclaimed. “But I would not cause havoc in the ranks of my King and Queen by demanding his head. Sometimes we have to suck shit up, do what we don’t want to do, so everyone’s happy.”

Jaime looked at the older man sadly.

“I apologise, Ser Davos. On behalf of House Lannister.” Jaime blurted out quickly.

“Contrary to your reputation, Kingslayer, the crime was not yours. One day, I’ll have my apology from _ him_.” Davos finished, indicating his head to his dwarf brother, already deep in his cups.

Jaime looked to Tyrion, to the laughing crowd dancing around the open flames, and sighed. He would apologise for the next hundred years if that’s what it took. Though, Cersei’s adamant last stand would likely earn him more to apologise for. She would not bow it gracefully, or kindly, or fairly. She would not do as Jaime so desperately wished, and accept her fate and submit. She would stick her heels into the throne room floor and refuse to leave, refuse to bend.

Jaime had heard the men whisper. They would simply carry her out, they would say. Dead or alive. His head hit the stack of crates behind him gently, his eyes closing as he tried to rid the image from his mind.

“Join in,” Davos said as he pulled away and towards the celebrating crowd. “Try to forget about whatever it is you’re mulling over. That’s what these lot are doing.”

He opened his eyes to side-eye the older man, whose face was gentle - if not wary. He found the man’s kindness odd. Unfamiliar. Perhaps the elopement had softened him, if but for a night. Alas, the man had a point and Jaime sighed, slowly pushing off the crates and towards the group.

A few stared with bitter eyes and half-concealed snarls as he approached. Most of the Dothraki and Unsullied merely ignored him, their past sufferings not so entrenched in the actions of both him and his House. So many people, so many smiles. A woman danced past him, a northern girl with odd green hair and clad in muddy brown leathers. An Unsullied man dressed in Westerosi clothes, his black armour absent amidst the party. And Tyrion, telling a drunken tale to those willing to listen, a bright smile spread across his face.

Jaime admired the scene. The laughter. The dancing. None of the men and women here remembered where they were, what they were doing. They had forgotten, if just for an evening. An older lord in bulky furs approached drunkenly and shoved a drink in his good hand, the stench of it practically vomit-inducing. He took it anyway and gulped.

The man turned to hand the Queen and her husband drinks, though she refused. They both looked a little lighter than they had earlier - their shoulders bearing just a feather less of weight. Lord Manderly, Jaime remembered his name, stumbled away heartily, revealing Jaime’s loitering figure to the newly-wed couple.

Both stared at him awkwardly as he stood as still as stone. A few others glanced his way, eyes glued on a brewing confrontation - that never came. Jaime raised his near-finished drink and raised a toast, looking them straight in the eye.

“To the Queen, and her husband!” Jaime yelled. 

“To the Queen and her husband!” The crowd repeated with drunken and joyful enthusiasm.

Both smiled politely at him as he nodded and walked away, his sights set on a log that was being used for makeshift seating. There was no reason to fight them, debate them, about what was to come. Not tonight, at least.

“Ser Jaime,” Daenerys called out behind him. Jaime turned slowly to see she had pulled away from Jon and towards him.

“Yes, your Grace?” The title came easier to him now, as Cersei’s death loomed on the horizon.

“I just wanted you to know… what you said the other day to Jon and Theon… I respect it.” She said firmly. “I respect what you did.”

She spoke of the murder of her father. His betrayal of trust. His breaking of an oath. A glint in her eye was sincere, her mind clearly having mulled over it for the past few days. Perhaps she needed to say it for herself, to get past what her father was. But by the Gods, was it selfish for Jaime to say he was glad to hear it?

The two looked at each other for a few more moments. A vengeful daughter and butcher knight - diametrically opposed, at least in theory. He had come to her at Winterfell and faced her scorn, but this? This was not scorn, nor hate, nor rage. It was mercy. A mercy for them both - to understand and be understood. To look at the bloodied past and set it aside, for everyone, and for themselves. It wasn’t forgiveness, Jaime realised, but it was understanding. Comprehension. Sympathy.

It was all he needed, because it was all he deserved.

Jaime turned away quickly as a tear left his eye. He had not realised he needed to hear those words so badly. Was he the best person in the world? The most righteous? The most good? No, but by the Gods, he could bloody try. Maybe then he could make up for the cruelty he’s inflicted on this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO JAIME NEEDED TO HEAR IT, EVEN IF IT WASN'T FORGIVENESS. Like honestly, how can you expect someone to try and be better if you're not gonna reinforce the actual... good shit they've done?  
Anyway, support Jaime Lannister redemption for clear skin.
> 
> As I was going through and thinking who he needed to have this sort of conversation with, I suddenly sat there and was like DAVOS. My dude. I was irritated he never brought up his son getting killed by Tyrion, so I sort of weaved a reason why into this story, which also made sense for his character.  
As for the Dany talking to Jaime part: it is very much a parallel of her talking to Jon at the Dragon Pit - she didn't like what [Jon/Jaime] did, [telling the truth to Cersei/killing Aerys] hasn't benefitted her, but she understands and ultimately respects it as an honourable act.
> 
> In OTHER NEWS, we are [not a spoiler] MERE CHAPTERS away from the Battle of King's Landing, and needless to say... I am afraid(tm)


	55. Arya IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A true man does what he will, not what he must."

It was like being in the eye of a storm, Arya thought. Smallfolk fleeing in all directions, shouts and yells as people decided where to go. In or out? North or south? Arya knew where she was going, though. She knew where she wanted to be.

She stood before the towering walls of King’s Landing, watching as a stream of refugees and soldiers took their final positions. Daenerys Targaryen had been sighted on the horizon, her great beasts and countless loyal men alongside her. Jon would be with her too, Arya realised. He was mere miles away.

The Hound grunted next to her as another peasant barraged into him, failing to recognise his burned scars due to the black hood on his head. Arya pitied them. Some fled from the city, fearing the firestorm to come, the sack that was no doubt to occur. Some fled  _ inside _ . Some thought Cersei could hold them off. Some of them were bloody stupid, Arya thought.

Arya moved from where she stood amongst the bustling crowd and towards the gates, heavily guarded by Lannister men and the pitiful remains of the Golden Company. She could see their golden daggers from where she stood and longed to drive them into their own throats.

But she couldn’t. That’s not what she was here for.

She reached into the old satchel hanging from her shoulder and took out a fleshy mask. The Hound eyed her warily as they manoeuvred through the crowd, his sights set on the guards ahead. Her hood was up as well, and amidst the chaos, no one noticed the slight woman transforming into a golden-haired man under her cloak.  _ Thank you, Harry Strickland _ , Arya said silently. 

“What the fuck?” The Hound whispered harshly as Arya revealed her new face.

“Calm down,” Arya murmured to him. “Just some help from the dead.”

The Hound gripped the hilt of his sword nervously as they dared closer to the gate. The guards were pulling people from the crowds and demanding their motives, their plans. Anyone who looked remotely armed was plucked from the stream.

“Sandor, hand me your blade,” Arya said quickly.

“No thank you,” He replied.

She slowed down and grabbed his arm with a gloved hand. “It wasn’t a question.”

The Hound looked at her, or rather  _ Harry _ , up and down - his eyes wide and microscopically afraid. He unfastened the sword belt from his hips and shoved it in her hands, before pulling his hood further over his scarred face.

“You’re telling me they’re not going to recognise my ugly mug?” He questioned as they set off on their pace again.

“Look at them, Sandor. These Lannister men look no older than me.” Arya said, indicating to the red-clad guards at the gate. 

Their faces were soft and young beneath their helmets, not a shred of stubble or aged lines in sight. All the proper soldiers, the older soldiers, were likely dead already. She wondered if the men,  _ boys _ , before her had ever even seen a man die.

One spotted her, his deep brown eyes narrowing at the sight of the larger blade on her hip. Needle, however, was better hidden beneath the cloak. He moved a few people aside, his iron-armoured hand reaching out to grab at her. Arya froze for a second, the small inkling of childish fear swelling in the pit of her stomach. But, right now, she was not a girl. She was not Arya. She was Harry Strickland, Captain of the Golden Company.

“You dare to touch me, boy?” Arya exclaimed in Strickland’s voice, her voice deep and authoritarian. 

The guard visibly flinched, his outstretched hand snatching back to his side at the sound. The Hound kept walking, not a soul noticing the lumbering man weave between the peasants. Arya smiled slightly as he went.

“Uh, what’s your business? Y-You’re armed. That’s all I’m asking, Ser.” The guard fretted.

“I’m one of the Queen’s commanders,” Arya replied. Wrong Queen, though. “You’ve heard of the Golden Company, have you not?”

The boy nodded quickly, before turning to call over one of the Golden guards. “Will, get over here!”

_ Clever boy _ , Arya thought,  _ never take a man at his word _ .

The man, older than the rest and adorned in gold-coated armour, stopped as he reached where the two of them stood amidst the crowd. His hazel eyes grew wide in shock as he saw Harry’s face.

“Ser! We thought we lost you at Winterfell!” Will exclaimed.

Arya placed her hands on leathered hips and made up a lie. “Yes, well, I was injured outside the camps, but because I wasn’t armoured properly the stupid Northerners couldn’t bloody tell I wasn’t one of them. Cleaned and bandaged me up nice and pretty! Managed to come down with the army as a civilian.”

The two men laughed, wide smiles on their faces.

“Now, I best get to the Queen, and help with the defence.” Arya continued. “I imagine there are at least some of us left?”

“About three-thousand, Ser,” Will replied.

Arya feigned a concerned and mournful look.  _ Oh, the poor souls! Lost in the cold,  _ she could say, if she strived for the dramatic.

“We will regroup when this battle is won. Best of luck, men.” Arya declared, as boldly as she could. She slapped the Lannister guard on the shoulder and walked away, unhindered. When she was far enough from the men and safely through the strong city gates, Arya chuckled.

The Hound stood near a butcher’s shuttered shop, the meat having been left outside in disarray as the owner hurried to hide. Arya wrinkled her nose at the smell. King’s Landing had never been a land of sweet-smelling flowers. She brushed past him, nudging him to follow as she strode in the direction of the Red Keep.  Around them, people hurried into their homes, to hide from the battle to come. Some were trying to leave. Some were even heading to the Keep. Arya couldn’t help but roll her eyes.  _ Cersei Lannister will not protect you _ .

“Where did you even fucking learn that, girl?” The Hound asked behind her as they hurried through the city. She still had not removed Harry’s face - it would come in handy should the Keep gates be barred from the people.

“Not from you,” She answered coolly.

Arya looked at the people, yelling and wailing for shelter and food. Half their faces were ghosts, gaunt and malnourished. They were starving. At that moment, Arya hated Cersei more.

A dragon roared in the distance.

Arya turned to see the city gates heaving shut behind her, the last dregs of refugees clamouring at the closing wood. Whether they would be safer inside or out, Arya did not truly know.  The Hound hurried them along, his face etched in concern, but also in determination. They weren’t here for the same things, but they would find them in the same place.

Another roar. The slow stomping of armoured boots.

She breathed heavily, in and out, time and again. She needed to calm her nerves. She needed to think clearly for what she must do in the castle ahead. As Arya observed the Red Keep, she imagined what it would look like a few hours from now.

Arya couldn’t wait to see it burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For me, every time I edit I can just mentally hear the jaws theme in the background stressing me out as we get closer to the battle.
> 
> In summary: Arya has a permit and it just says "I do what I want."


	56. Daenerys XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I."

“Everybody move!” One of the vanguard commanders shouted. Lord Manderly, most likely.

The armies she had gathered and earned, stood unified on the hill overlooking King’s Landing. Cersei had destroyed the trees for a distance, perhaps a mile or so, to prevent siege weapons from being made. How forgetful people had become, Daenerys pondered, in the years since the last dragon had perished years ago.

_ I do not need bark and wood, only fire and blood. My dragons are my siege weapons_, she thought.

Amongst the hurrying men, commanders and leaders from all corners of the realm gathered in their last conversations. Grey Worm. Gendry Baratheon. Jaime Lannister. Daenerys stood on a higher outcropping, too far away to hear their words but able to watch as the mass of men clambered into formation outside the capital. The soldiers had fallen silent, the nerves of battle creeping into their bones. She was nervous too. At the end of this day, the crown will rest upon the head of a Queen - but which one? Would she see the Iron Throne, properly, unhindered, and rest her hand upon it as she should have done in her dreams? Or would she be a corpse, fallen from her dragon or severed by a blade?

There was only one way to find out.

Daenerys lifted her hands to ensure her braid was tight and fastened, her black dress and red cape fluttering in the wind. There were clouds today, light grey and scattered across the sky. Enough to hide between before she dropped from above. A tingling sensation in her fingers signalled what Daenerys almost considered excitement. Not at the prospect of war, but of victory. A queen not just in name, not just in claim.

Tyrion stood a few feet behind her, joining her in the final observation of the troops. His hangover from the celebrations had practically been a week-long, his temperament and co-ordination not improving as they neared King’s Landing. He had been happy for her, that much was clear the night of her and Jon’s marriage, but something in his eyes was forlorn. Already in mourning - for his vile sister, no doubt.

“When will everything be in order?” She asked abruptly, her eyes transfixed on the masses below. From here, she could also see the city’s gate, recently closed to her - and the swarm of civilians begging to be let inside.

“Any minute now. The battle begins when you start it, your Grace.” Tyrion replied. “Greyjoy has already departed. His boat is no doubt already nearing the fleet and awaiting your signal.”

Daenerys sucked in a deep breath. She had not risen early enough this morning to wish Theon good luck, too busy hoarding sleep and comfort from Jon. Her husband. The thought almost made her giddy. When she had married Drogo, all she had felt was fear and loneliness. Now, she felt on top of the world.

“So it begins…” Daenerys remarked, a sign cutting between her words. “I wonder what they’ll call this day when they write about it...”

“Something poetic, your Grace, I’m sure.” He replied dolefully. Daenerys glanced over her shoulder to see Tyrion look on at the city in worry.

Daenerys turned her sights back on the sprawling walls and buildings and smiled. _ They’ll probably call it something boring_, she pondered, _ ‘Daenerys I Targaryen’s assault on King’s Landing’_. She almost rolled her eyes at the thought.

She could hear Jon approach behind her, his gait less rigid than that of the Unsullied, and no other man would dare approach her so brazenly except them. Except for Jon. When she turned, he was in the middle of pulling his hair from his face and into a tie. A shame, Dany liked it when he left it down.

“Everything is in order, my Queen. May I accompany you to Drogon?” Jon asked sweetly, as his hands fell from his head.

Daenerys smiled and stepped from the outcropping’s ledge to walk with her husband.

“Your Grace?” Tyrion blurted out as she began to walk away. “I wish you good fortune.”

“Thank you, Tyrion,” Daenerys replied politely, a small smile on her face. He was to stay behind the frontline. He had argued, of course, adamant he could hold his own. Perhaps he could, Daenerys had wondered, but men who strived to be heroes often died unhappy deaths. As much as they had disagreed in the past months, she needed her Hand alive.

Daenerys glided past him, taking the arm of her husband as he escorted her through the tall trees. Drogon and Rhaegal awaited her further back, deeper into the treeline, to be flown westwards and up and then around again so that she would be hidden amongst the clouds. She would be Aegon the Conqueror dropping from the sky, and King’s Landing would be the towers of Harren the Black.

Jon’s arm, which Daenerys clung to as they walked, trembled slightly. She looked at him, concerned, but his face calmed at the sight of her worried smile, and he breathed in deeply. He was to be with the troops, on the ground. He would be brilliant, Daenerys did not doubt that. He had won back his home against three-fold his own men and without a dragon in sight. For that, she admired him, for now, it was her turn.

“I worried this day would never come, you know.” Daenerys murmured. “So many times… in the Red Waste, in Meereen, in the Dothraki sea. Even at Winterfell, when I saw those wights running at me. I thought I would stay in Essos. I thought maybe I would perish.”

Jon patted her hand reassuringly. “I never imagined it, if I’m completely honest. The last dragon rider of House Targaryen staring down the gates of King’s Landing, with two full-grown dragons at her back and an army of the size Westeros has never seen.”

“Not the last,” Daenerys smiled, a held her hand protectively over her well-concealed stomach.

“No, not the last,” He smiled back.

Tyrion was the only one to know, though Dany was sure a few others suspected it. The elopement had all but confirmed any rumours for the smallfolk. A romantic tale, no doubt. She knew Jon was itching to tell Arya, and honestly, she was surprised he had not told her when they had left the North. He took his oaths seriously, it seemed.

Daenerys was not a religious woman, far from it - but she prayed. Every day, and every night, that the witch in the east had lied. Months from now, Dany prayed she would be holding a little boy or girl in her arms, their hair silver-gold or black, she didn’t care which. A prince or princess of Dragonstone. An heir to her reclaimed throne.

She saw the peak of a dragon’s wing amidst the trees and realised it was nearly time to go. She grabbed Jon’s arm, perhaps harsher than she had intended, and pulled him in to hug her, to hold her. She rested her head on his chest, a soft hand resting softly on his leather-iron armour. The selfish part of her wished he would ride with her. She wished he would mount Rhaegal, his father’s namesake, and take back their home with her. 

But, no, Jon was a soldier. A commander. A leader. He must be where his strengths lay, and that was on the ground.

Jon squeezed and planted a tender kiss on the top of her braided head, braids which he had done himself that very morning. She didn’t want him to let go, but she knew she must mount her dragon and take off into the sky, lest the battle never begin.

Both of them looked to her dragons as their hug came to its woeful end. The expression in his eyes, she could not quite place. Fear? Trepidation? Exasperation? His lips were pressed into a fine line, and his eyes observed the rumbling beasts with an unfocused stare. 

“I’m proud of you, you know.” He said quietly, breaking their woodland silence. “You survived all those things, both sides of the Narrow Sea, and you’ve come out of all with all this strength and pride intact. It’s admirable. Awe-inspiring.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Daenerys quipped, a childish smirk on her face as they stood in the middle of the trees. Jon rolled his eyes dramatically at her pun.

“Dany, I’m being serious!” He laughed, before the serious look in his eyes resumed. “I know there’s one last battle to come, I know things aren’t certain, but… you’re a survivor, that much is plain to see... What I’m trying to say is that you’ve suffered and endured and achieved so much on your own… that I’m happy you’re not alone, at the end of it.”

Alone. Of course, she wasn’t. Not anymore. Daenerys smiled lovingly as he monologued, the words seemingly struggling to flow from his pretty mouth. He was no poet, after all.

“A maester… Aemon… once told me that a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.” Jon continued. Dany’s ears pricked up at the name, a story she would demand he tell once this battle was over. “Now, here we are. Targaryens. Together.”

His words filled her, with love, with resolve. Together. She would have it no other way. She pulled him into a kiss, firm and final. His lips were sweet and almost smiling - and Daenerys was the same. He grabbed the small of her back and held her there for a while, the two of them forgetting that she must go and that she must go soon. Jon remembered soon enough, and let her go.

Drogon grumbled, anxious to begin. She looked at him, her ferocious son, and sighed. Not a sigh of reluctance to fight, but reluctance to leave. Jon held her hand as he walked her to the black beast, his eyebrows pulling in newfound worry and anxiety.

“I think we’ve all seen enough war to last a lifetime… or two, in my case,” Jon said softly as he let her small hand escape his. “Let it end.”

Daenerys nodded, her face forlorn. The land had been in turmoil for years, ever since the Usurper's death, though some would argue it had been doomed the day the wicked Joffrey was born not a year after her.

She looked in his deep brown eyes once again and murmured her agreement. “Let it end.”

“I love you. Be careful.” He blurted out as she turned to leave.

She turned her head back to him and smiled. “And I love you. Don’t ever forget it.”

He needed to get back to the vanguard, he needed to be with his men, but he lingered a moment longer. She climbed atop Drogon, his leathery black scales rough under her newly adorned gloves, and watched in pride as Rhaegal shot up into the sky. 

She leaned forward, intrinsic and bloodied instinct connecting her to her son. When she had mounted Drogon at Winterfell, all she had felt was fear. Now, it was resolve. Determination. Fire and blood.

_ Fly_, she commanded.

Drogon’s massive black wings spread out like sails, beating once, twice and again to launch himself from the grassy ground. He took a few steps, stumbling as one wing hit a tree, and then flew. 

She loved the feel of the air on her face, less bitter and cold than Winterfell’s had been. Less dark and terrifying. She circled, pulling on Drogon’s spine to head further up and eventually east, towards the city. She glanced below to see Jon, a speck of a man amidst the trees, looking up at her. She could not see his face nor hear his voice but smiled at him all the same.

She climbed higher and higher until she broke through the clouds in the sky. She couldn’t see Jon anymore, or her men, or the city - it was just her, and her remaining sons. If she wanted to, she realised, she could flee. Find herself a home in another place, far away. Return to Meereen, or Vaes Dothrak, or Pentos. But she didn’t want that. Home was down below. It was Jon Snow’s smile and the laughter of her men. The feeling of an unborn child and the cheering of a hopeful crowd.

A dragon cannot stay in the sky forever, she realised.

She glanced down, noticing the splashes of Blackwater Bay through the spotted clouds. A few ships. Black sails. 

_ Shall we begin? _

She darted down, as vertical as the rules of the world would allow without her falling, the speed of her drop forcing her to squint her eyes and seek Drogon’s large neck as shelter from the brutal wind. With every second, the water drew closer, the ships drew closer. A few had finally noticed her.

A bolt.

She swerved with ease, the rocking of their ships hindering their aim. She dodged another, one that narrowly missed the wing of her son. She could see them now, the specks of men on board, hurrying to unleash their bolts on her and her children.

“Dracarys!” Daenerys yelled, at the top of her lungs, all the majesty and might of every Targaryen who ever lived filling her every bone, powering her very voice.

Drogon rained fire on the fleet, one after another, though Daenerys continually dodged the large behemoth at its centre. _ The Silence_, Daenerys remembered, _ Don’t burn a ship with your Lord of the Iron Islands onboard_.

She skimmed the water, the reflection of her black beast darkening the Bay. Ship after ship burned in her path, their sails collapsing into the water and their men jumping to avoid her wrath. Daenerys needn’t burn them as they swam, so urged Drogon towards the city, riding low and swift and jumping up at the last second to evade the scorpion bolts. 

It all burned. Every scorpion. Every ballista. Every archer. Every Lannister banner. How many minutes had it been? Ten? Twenty? It did not matter, for the walls were already aflame, Rhaegal having dropped down to join his brother in the firestorm. 

She could see her army peering out of the treeline, anxious to join in the fight. Cersei had posted few men outside, had assumed this battle would be fought with scorpions and trebuchets. _ Dragons are fire made flesh_, Daenerys remembered, _ Did no one else realise that too? _

She crashed down the gates in a fiery blaze, incinerating its defenders in an instant, their screams dying on the wind. Daenerys spared a glance to see her armies charge at the city, weapons unsheathed. The sight made her smile. Perhaps Jon was among them, Longclaw at the ready to fight for her, for his child - but she could not see him.

Daenerys turned her attention to the Red Keep. It was sitting there, towering above the flames, its untouched walls taunting her to come for it, to burn it. Below her, commonfolk screamed at the sight of her as she skimmed the walls atop her fiery steed and burned what was left of Cersei’s scorpions.

She knew the whispers, the gossip reported to her by the traitor Varys. Some said she was mad, just like her father, no better than Cersei Lannister. But some whispered differently. They said it was like Aegon and Balerion the Black Dread had come again, to rebuild the Seven Kingdoms anew with fire and blood.

Except for this time, it was she who was the dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I blast The Last War in my ears as I wrote this? yes.
> 
> If you look closely, you can see me taking the piss out of episode 4 and 5.


	57. Theon V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That is the only time a man can be brave."

The ships were burning, blazing hot and bright orange and red. Theon had never been one to fear fire, but the sight of the wood sinking into the waves as it was ravaged by flame unsettled him. He could see The _ Silence _ , just ahead, his small rowing boat managing to weave between the wreckages as men screamed as they swam. There was no one to fight, no one to bear their iron blades against. Their enemy had come from the sky.

Daris and a few other men sat nervously in the boat with him, rowing as quick and strong as their arms would allow and wary of the men attempting to claw towards their small boat. It was just ahead. Yara was just ahead. Theon readied himself to launch onto the side of the ship, largely untouched by dragonfire. He whispered a silent thank you to the Dragon Queen. When their boat dared close enough, Theon grabbed the ropes and rigging dangling from the ship and heaved, pulling himself onto the very ship where he would find his sister.

The rest of his men followed, the four of them scrambling upwards until they reached the top. A few spotted them, but alas, Euron’s ship was one of mutes, and there were no meaningful cries for help as they lodged their blades in their chests. A few launched themselves overboard, just like the rest, the sound of the yelling and crackling distance flames near unbearable.

“Theon, over there!” Daris whispered harshly, his slender finger pointed at a basic door to the side of the captain’s quarters. Yara had to be in there, Theon realised. It was the only door that appeared to lead to the storage deck.

The two nodded at each other, the three remaining men readying their blades in the defence of their Lady and her brother. The entire ship knew they were here now, the chaos caused by their boarding spreading throughout the deck and alerting the rest.

Theon burst through the wooden door, nearly taking it off of its rusty hinges. He raced down the stairs and scrambled to focus his eyes in the dim light. The room was clearly storage, and for a second, Theon feared he might have been in the wrong place.

“Theon?” A voice whispered in the darkness.

He turned quickly to find its source, his blade reflecting the dim lanterns on the ship walls and illuminating the corners. His eyes were wide, desperate to catch a glimpse of the broken voice who had called out his name.

“Theon!” The voice said again, a half sob, half-laugh.

He moved closer to see her lying beside a stack of damp crates, a small home carved out in imprisonment. Her left ankle was in shackles, so heavy and harsh her foot was a sickly grey colour, and her shin was littered in bruises of all ages.

Theon scrambled towards her, dropping his blade and pulling her beaten and bloody face into his hands as so to hold her properly. Her face looked worn - a clearly broken nose and a myriad of black eyes, bruises and no doubt infected cuts. He had to get her out. He had to get her out right now.

“Hold still!” Theon declared, leaning behind him to retrieve his fallen blade.

He stood, as tall as he could and swung the blade behind his head. He brought it down with a crash, striking the metal chains holding her to the wooden floor. It didn’t break. He pulled back again, raising higher this time, striking harder this time. It didn’t break again. 

Theon sighed, annoyed. He had to get her out of here. He brought it up, one more time, and brought it down once again with all the power and might he could muster and watched as the iron cracked and fell, freeing his sister from her chains.

“Oh, thank fuck!” Yara exclaimed. “Oh, thank fuck, fuck, fuck!”

She launched herself around him, a half hug and half demand to be helped to her feet. He wrapped his feeble hands around her starved waist and smiled, glad to see his sister alive, if not well.

“Let’s go, come on.” He said quietly in her ear, an attempt at comfort.

Theon dragged Yara with him as he ran to the stairs leading to the door, heaving his sister up the splintered wooden steps to freedom. She yelped and grunted as she climbed, her eyes twitching at the incoming light pouring through the gap in the wood. He burst through the door again to be greeted by an even more fiery sight. The alight ships closest to the Silence had drifted closer, the ropes connecting them to their anchors having burned away.

One of the men that had followed him aboard lay dead against the ship wall, his throat slashed jagged by a cruel blade. To his right, Daris and the other fellow were barely standing their ground. On the boat, Daris had told him to leave him - to save Yara and get out. Theon turned to flee, Yara’s arm straddled over his shoulder.

A figure in black dropped from one of the sails, blade bared and his smile sickly.

“Now, where the fuck do you think you’re going, eh?” Euron sneered, his sword pointed erratically at the two young Greyjoys.

Euron lunged, blood already dripping from his blade and from his face. Theon threw Yara to the side, though she did not lose her balance and instead ran to grab the blade of the fallen man.

Theon dodged and his sword clashed with Euron’s in a sharp ring. Euron laughed. It was a game for him. Yara ran at both men, her face wincing as her bare feet hit the hardwood. She lunged, quick and decisive, but missed, Euron moving as quick as lightning to escape her blade. 

Yara stumbled backwards and Theon moved to guard her, his sword at the ready and already out of breath. He ushered her backwards, slowly stepping away from Euron and towards the main body of the deck.

Daris dispatched the last of the mute crew, his axe cleaving into the man’s bald head. His eyes grew wide as he saw who faced them now. Euron prowled forward, his eyes set on his next victims.

“You’re both fucking useless! Greyjoys unworthy of the damn name! I’ll kill you!” Euron bellowed. “ _ I’m  _ the real Kraken here!”

“Then prove it!” Yara taunted.

Yara pounced with her blade high, her bravado overpowering her injuries and fear. She managed to slash at Euron, right under his eye, and his face began to pour liquid red. But, it only seemed to anger the burly man more, his eyes glaring at his rival to the Salt Throne.

Theon’s chest clenched in fear and anxiety as the fight began anew. Euron slashed and hacked at the group relentlessly, an enraged smile on his face. Every time, with every swing of the blade, they were pushed back, continuously on the defensive. The other man with them, Alon, Theon remembered, fell to the floor in a heap as Euron drove his blade through his gut. Yara watched in horror as his face went black, a long-time friend of hers now gone.

As they were distracted, Euron managed to grab at Daris, knocking the blade from his hand and punching down with his armoured elbow. Daris cried out in agony as the bones in his wrist shattered, falling to the floor clutching his now-useless sword hand.

“Daris!” Theon yelled. Euron simply laughed.

Theon lunged forward, running underneath Euron’s swinging arm to slash the back of his leg. Euron stumbled, grabbing his leg as it bled and he grunted in pain. His face grew angrier, his lips pulling back into a snarl at the younger Greyjoy.

Euron hit him with the hilt of his sword as Theon hesitated, too shocked that he had even managed to hit his uncle. Theon stumbled backwards and fell, crashing into a stack of crates. The splintering of the wood pricked at the back of his neck and his hands, but not enough to do any damage. 

Theon saw it then. Flashes of what had come before. Instead of getting up to rejoin the fray, Theon retreated behind the fallen wood. His hands shook and he scrambled to remove his gloves, the anxious heat of it all becoming too much.  _ Breathe, Theon, breathe, _ he thought. The sound of the blades. The screaming. The fire. It was all like before, when he had lost Yara the last time. Theon couldn’t handle it again.

Yara screamed.

Theon whipped his head around the crates and saw Euron with his fist tangled in her greasy hair, his shining blade at her bare throat. She wore no armour, no proper leathers, and her eyes were wide with a fear Theon had never seen on his sister's face. At that moment, Theon had never felt more afraid. For her. For himself. For everything and everyone.

He heaved. His breath was ragged and harsh and he could get no proper air into his broken lungs. When Euron pushed her back so she was backed up against the side of the ship, Theon nearly screamed and looked around frantically for a way to help her.

In his panic, he had lost his sword.  Theon scrambled on the floor for it, desperate to save his sister, desperate to be away from Euron. He did not find it. But, the glint of shiny steel caught Theon’s eye as the sound of Yara’s screaming turned to white noise in the distance, his mind fogged by the memory of their previous battle. It was armour, Theon realised.

“Theon!” Yara screamed. “Theon, help!”

He couldn’t see her, did not know what Euron did to her at that moment. Theon trembled as he reached for the shiny metal. Theon glanced over to the side of the ship, the wooden barrier keeping men from falling in beckoning to flee again.  All those months ago, Theon had leapt from the ship and abandoned his sister, a coward in all but name. Who was he, if he did such a thing again? Euron was a better fighter than them, always had been - but all men are at the mercy of the waves when they fall into the sea.

The waves had guided him back to shore, so he could rejoin them again.

Theon grabbed as many pieces as he could, firmly and frantically, tying them to his leathers and strapping them to his belt. In a mere matter of moments, Theon was clad in the armours of a mainland knight. His hands no longer trembled and his eyes were no longer blind.

He stood, rising above the broken wooden crates around him and turning to face his sister. Euron was pulling a sharp blade along her face, carving it into shapes and lines that dripped with blood. If the man had been smart, he would have killed her already. If the man had been sane, he would have not waited for a fight.

Theon stumbled around the wood, the weight of the armour making his legs heavy and his muscles ache. He clenched his hands and dared to speak.

“Euron!” Theon yelled. Not Reek.

Euron pulled back, his face a bloody mess from the scratches of his sister. He laughed.

“Are you going to flee again, coward?” Euron sneered.

Theon said nothing. He looked to Yara, her eyes wide in fear. Fear of death. Fear that he would leave her to that death.

_ No, Yara, _ Theon thought,  _ Never again _ .

Theon took a tentative step forward. Euron laughed again and threw Yara to the floor. He pointed his blade at Theon, his eyebrows raising as he saw that he was unarmed. Yara looked at Theon fearfully from where she lay on the floor. Her eyes were inquisitive, unsure of what Theon planned to do. But then, she realised. She knew.

He breathed. Once. Twice. Deep breaths to calm his fretting nerves. Be brave. Do something good, honourable, for once in your life.

Theon ran, bolted, straight into a sprint, sparing no look at his sister or Daris. Euron raised his blade, preparing to strike the craven Theon down. Instead, Theon wrapped his arms around his elder uncle, heaving forward with all of his strength and momentum until they reached the edge of the ship and toppled over. He heard both Daris and Yara scream as they flew overboard.

They crashed into ice-cold waves, the darkness of the sea enveloping them as they immediately began to plummet farther and farther down. Theon took one of the straps of his armoured gloves and wrapped them around his other hand, effectively trapping Euron in his lethal embrace.

Euron stabbed, once, twice, into Theon’s side, but he was determined did not let go. Euron kicked his legs, a scream bubbling in his throat as the light of the surface soon became lost to them. Theon kept his eyes shut through the pain, and tried to think of his sister. Of the Starks. Of Jon and Sansa and Winterfell.

_ Am I a good man? _ Theon asked the void.  _ Am I worthy of a death at sea? _

He could feel it. The air running out. The water rushing into his lungs. It was cold but refreshing. Euron’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as his arms disengaged from Theon and floated above them. Theon smiled at the sight and opened his mouth. The silence was nice, Theon noted. Not the ship, of course, but the soft vibrations of the water around him. From here, he could hear no screams. He could hear no fire. No battle. 

They had always said that drowning at sea made you the best of sailors, hadn’t they? That the Drowned God would welcome you with open arms. Theon lost his sight first. Then the heavy weight of his arms. Then the panic went too, the panic of dying. Yara was safe.

That was all Theon cared about, when he welcomed the rush of cold seawater into the last part of his lungs and the void of the sea finally took him to his God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A love letter to Theon Greyjoy:
> 
> There is a reason why his first and last quotes on the summaries are Ned's discussion about bravery.  
If I'm honest, Theon was one of the few deaths in the show I had no issue with. However, I wanted to explore him more than we got in the last season of the show and after thinking a lot about his character (He is very high up on my list of faves if it's not obvious) I arrived at this little love letter lol.  
Theon Greyjoy's arc was not so much doomed, but destined, to end with his death. I do not think that is a bad thing. But, I think a death where he defends his sister, rather than the Starks, holds a different meaning.  
He's done much to upset the Starks. He's betrayed them, abandoned them, and treated them with disdain, but by the end came full circle by being welcomed back into their home and family unit (if not a bit warily). His conversation with Jon at Dragonstone was by far the most important conversation Theon has with anyone in the later seasons. He is a Greyjoy, and he is a Stark. It's a lesson that Jon is finally teaching himself as well. But, more importantly, Theon embraces both, as he strived not to do at the start of the books and show. He took Ned's teachings of honour and bravery and applied them to his desire to protect and save his sister. And by doing that, Theon Greyjoy redeemed himself. Not by defending the Starks at Winterfell, not by defending Sansa against Ramsay (though they all certainly contributed) - but by taking everything good they taught him and absorbing it and CHANGING, and applying it to his own family.  
Theon Greyjoy may not be a Stark in blood or name, but he certainly can fucking be one in death.
> 
> [side note: I'm aware Euron's role in this story has been... limited, so to speak. But, frankly, I was so pissed with the complete deconstruction of his book character into whatever poor Pilou Asbek had to portray that I deemed it near impossible to rework his plot within this fic without completely retconning the events of season 6 & 7]


	58. Arya X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sandor had been hard and brutal, yes, but it was his big brother who was the real monster of House Clegane."

Arya had broken out into a sprint the second the roaring shadow of Drogon filled the sky. The walls were alight, a ring of fire enclosing the city, just like the pyre at Winterfell. The Red Keep was not a few hundred metres ahead, the entrance they were aiming for less busy than the main one that the people were using to seek shelter. This one was the one Arya had used to flee the Keep all those years ago, a small archway designed to be the exit for the stables.

The Hound grunted as they barged into the civilians standing in their way, a myriad of terrified faces gazing up at the sky as the dragons bore down on the city walls. If Arya had had the time, she would look up in wonder and watch the stone collapse, but alas, she had more important things to attend to.

Few men guarded this entrance to the Keep, most clearing off to join the defence deeper into the city or to desert at the sight of Daenerys and her children. Arya got close, her mask of Harry Strickland still plastered on her face, but did not bother with any such charade as she had endured at the gates. With a few slashes of her dagger and an unceremonious headbutt from the Hound, the guards lay dead on the muddy ground.

The two of them shared a look, both of them with fire in their eyes as they launched from the balls of their feet into a sprint that landed them right into servants quarters of the castle.

Arya didn’t remember it as well as she had thought and looked around frustrated at every passing corridor and ajar door as they scurried through the Red Keep’s darkened halls. The Hound led them up to various flights of stairs, a rough hand grabbing her own as she nearly steered off course.

As they ascended, Arya ripped off the face of the Golden Captain and dumped him on the stone steps. She did not need his ugly face any longer. Cersei would look at _ her _face as she died, Arya had decided.

The steps were loud, their leather boots smacking off of it like thunder as they climbed as quick as they could. Sandor knew where they were going properly - to Maegor’s Holdfast. The blasted internal fortress of Cersei Lannister. Though, by the near-empty halls and burning men outside, the defence of the Queen would be thin. She had been abandoned.

It was then they heard voices. One female. One male. Arya pulled the Hound’s arm to a stop, yanking him back from the edge of the corner so that he would be hidden from view of the unknown whispers.

“You will not leave me!” The woman shrieked. “I command you to stay!”

“I am not _ trying _to leave you, your Grace! We both must flee!” The man she spoke with begged wearily.

The Hound peered around the corner, and his face erupted in barely contained anger. Arya need not ask which two vile people argued around the corner. Cersei fucking Lannister.

“He’s with them… ” The Hound whispered harshly.

“Who?” Arya whispered back.

“My cunt brother, who else?” He replied quietly, but his words were venom.

They both flinched as something crashed against the wall nearby, a vase or something similar. Cersei shrieked unintelligibly at her Hand, her throat hoarse and bordering on breaking. Arya heard the clanging of armour moving and held her breath.

“I am the Queen! The battle is _ mine _to win, you’ll see! You will stay! Stay!” Cersei yelled.

She was met by silence.

“Qyburn!” She shouted. Arya heard the sound of the woman slapping the older man across his wrinkled face.

“I… will not,” Qyburn said simply. “You are lost to reality.”

The man fled not a moment later, his shoes clapping off the stone in quick taps. He turned the corner to be greeted by the Hound and Arya, his eyes wide with shock and his body frozen with fear. Luckily, Cersei could not see his hesitation in his flight and simply screamed again as he fled her side.

Qyburn trembled, but Arya and the Hound merely stared and readied their weapons.

“Get lost, you cunt,” The Hound murmured bitterly to the man and Qyburn ran off and disappeared faster than Arya could say _ fuck off _ to him. He wasn’t on her list.

Not wanting to wait for a second longer, the Hound launched himself around the corner of the staircase with a scream, his greatsword swinging down and missing his brother by nearly an inch. Arya followed eagerly, Needle drawn and ready to strike at the blonde bitch she wanted dead so badly.

Except, she was behind four other Kingsguard and the Mountain, and therefore out of reach. Arya ran at them, intent on removing the black-steel clad obstacles from her bloody path. Cersei’s face contorted in fear and rage, stumbling backwards to hide behind the largest of the four men. Her finger wagged and she shouted unintelligible ravings, but Arya found she did not care what she said. There were people in her way.

Arya lunged and shoved her sword into the gap between one of the guard’s plate in his gut, causing him to flinch backwards in pain. He stumbled, and Arya lept again to pivot and drive Needle into his throat.

“Ser Gregor!” Cersei shrieked. “Help me!”

In that instant, the lumbering Mountain diverted his mindless attention from his brother and to Arya. An ungodly large armoured hand bore down at her to hit her and throw her across the room, the pain from the strike blinding her for a split second. She stumbled and fell backwards, her head hitting off the stone wall in the staircase corridor.

Her vision was blurry, the full force of the hit disorienting her. The Mountain stalked towards her again, taller than anything she had ever seen.

The Hound tackled him to the ground, or rather, tried to. Their blades met when he failed, and the Hound’s furious face was covered in more blood than before, etched in more pain. Arya’s eyes shot up to where Cersei was retreating - her loyal Kingsguard inched back with her.

_ No_, Arya thought.

She clambered up from the ground and grabbed her blade firmly once again, intent on sprinting towards the wretched woman. But, the Mountain reached out to fist a hand into her brown hair and drag her back down to the floor and a foot kicked the back of her leg to buckle her knees. When she fell to the stone, the Mountain grabbed her hair tighter and smacked her head against the wall. Hard.

Arya felt as if she were blind again, just like she had been in Braavos, the pain from her head splitting and pinching at her eyes. She could feel the blood streaming down her right-hand side, dripping onto the floor below. She could hear the fighting, of brother against brother. She lay on the floor as injured and defenceless as she had been every day she was blind in the streets.

When she looked up and scanned her surroundings, Cersei was gone.

_No, no, no, no!_ Arya screamed in rage, the fury that Cersei was lost to her boiling her blood. Her yelling brought the hand of the Mountain back down on her, his armoured hands lifting her from the ground and pinning her against the wall with a crash. It all hurt, so much, too much.

“Get off of her!” The Hound bellowed as he swung his blade into his brother’s back. The man didn’t even flinch as the sword lodged in his spine.

Arya fell from the Mountain’s grasp and scrambled to retrieve her lost blade. It was all fuzzy, the world moving and shifting as she manoeuvred the steps and launched herself at the Mountain. She got in a few stabs, a few slashes. He never flinched. Never keeled over. Never cried out in pain. And every time, he would reach out to grasp at her or to punch her, and with every hit, every blow, Arya felt weaker. But, the Mountain grew weaker as well, or at least she hoped, as the blood oozed from his open wounds in a filthy black.

The Hound lifted his blade to behead the man, but the Mountain simply grabbed the blade with his hands and wrenched it from his grip with an inhuman grunt. Arya couldn’t believe what was happening. This wasn’t a man anymore. 

Arya lunged again, her right hand clutching her head in pain as her left pounced, blade in hand. She managed to gauge him right in the neck, the strike not as strong as she wanted, but the man fell to his knees silently all the same. Arya hesitated, a trembling hand struggling to keep the well-practised balance of Needle in her grip. She was unsure if she had killed him once and for all.

On his knees, the Mountain lunged for his brother, climbing on top of him as the blood from his neck wound poured. Arya screamed and looked on in horror as he attempted to cave in Sandor’s face with a brutal yell.

Instinct kicking in, she leapt on top of him and drove her dagger into the larger man, abandoning Needle on the floor. She stabbed him as many times as she could before he heaved himself upwards and grabbed her from where she hung from his neck. His grip was tight - stronger than anything she had ever experienced.

He crushed her against the wall again and wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed, as hard as he could. Arya grasped and clawed at the man, her eyes straining and her mouth gasping for air as he deprived her of it. Her throat hurt. Her head hurt. Her chest heaved and her eyes nearly popped. The mighty Arya Stark, daughter of Eddard, murdered on a staircase by the Mountain. Not exactly one for the history books.

The wall crumbled behind her, inwards, and hard, as Daenerys began to attack the Keep itself. A fire began to rage in a nearby corner, the rubble falling from the ceiling as the Queen made pass after pass after pass. The Mountain’s grip on her faltered and allowed the bitter air to return to her lungs.

She collapsed to the floor as rubble hit them both, dislodging her from his grip. She was completely unable to summon the strength to fight. She gasped and gasped, desperate for her broken and sore throat to reclaim the breath the Mountain had stolen from her. The Hound, however, stood. He looked proud. Unafraid. Mighty. He almost looked like a knight.

“I fucking hate you,” The Hound murmured bitterly as he stared his brother down with piercing eyes.

The Mountain removed his helmet, an act of overconfidence in the face of a man who was desperate for his death. Arya couldn’t move, and so stayed on her belly as her head whirled at the sight of the men. She was losing blood, that much was certain, and the pain in her neck and her head had become too much for her to compel herself to stand.

The Hound lunged and began pummeling his brother, his gloved hands soaked black and red with blood as he did. The Mountain fought back, his armoured hands smacking down again and again at the younger sibling with almost morbid glee. Arya could have thrown up at the sight of all the blood.

The two men fell and scrambled across the rubble covered stairwell, their faces drowned in blood and their mouths uttering curses at the other. Arya tried to crawl, further up the stairs to where Cersei had fled to. She had to kill her. She had to kill her. She had to kill her. Otherwise, what was all this for?

She was stopped by the stumbling of the fighting brothers, the two collapsing just in front of her and throwing the vilest of punches. The Mountain saw her for a second, and in a frenzy reached out to do more damage than he had already done, his eyes blank as he seemingly could not control his bloodlust.

“No!” The Hound yelled as he grabbed a stone, newly removed from the wall by Daenerys’ Dragonfire. “You don’t get to touch her!”

He brought the rock down on his head, bashing it straight into his nose and caving it in.

“You!” Another hit. “Don’t!” Another. “Get!” Another. “To do!” Another. “That!” Another. “Ever again!”

The Mountain groaned as his face became unrecognizable, his clawing hands weaker with each brutal hit of the jagged and bloodied rock. The Hound looked as if he were crying - a rage donned on his features of the like Arya had never seen.

“Bastaaaard!” Sandor screamed, as he brought the rock down one final time, and lodged it deep into his face.

The Mountain’s hands fell from the Hound and collapsed to the floor with a loud clang. Sandor almost looked shocked, dazed, as he saw his brother’s chest stop moving. Arya stared on in disbelief. Sandor staggered off of him, dropping onto his back as he clutched his wounds. There was so much blood, that Arya was not even sure who was wearing whose.

She wanted Cersei’s blood, though. Her body ached for it. Her eyes longed to see it. It didn’t matter that the pain was drowning her senses, or that the tightness in her throat threatened her ability to breathe or talk or scream.

The Hound spotted her as she attempted to drag herself across the large steps, leaving behind a trail of blood in her wake. His look was that of concern, of exasperation. But when Arya gazed closer and watched his eyes as he observed her from a few feet away, she could see they were the eyes of a man dying. He had wounds from blades, hands, rubble - and he was covered head to toe in blood. His own.

She hesitated as she crawled onto the next step. The strength she had mustered left her at the sight of Sandor’s pained face, of the blood pouring from his broken body.

“...Sandor?” Arya croaked. It was barely a sound, no more than a whisper. The damage by Gregor Clegane’s monstrous hands would not go away just because they had won.

_ Won_?

Arya shook that thought from her mind in an instant. This didn’t look like winning, and she hadn’t fucking killed Cersei yet. Sandor’s face pulled into a smile as she attempted to repeat his name. He laughed, for a split second - but all that did was make him cough up viscous blood.

“Gonna leave me again, little girl?” Sandor groaned.

Arya didn’t know what to say. Her list. _ Her list_. It was the only thing she could think of. The names of her victims flooding her mind and haunting her every night since she had left this damned castle. Cersei was the only one left and what was she if she did not complete it? If she did not avenge her father?

“Don’t,” Sandor whispered.

The bravado was gone. His eyes were softer than they had been in years, the vitriol and hate having left him as swiftly as the blood did. That didn’t stop him throwing one final spitball to his dead brother, though.

Arya didn’t move, but her hand gripped the stone of the step in front of her as tight as it could, both in pain and in conflict. Cersei was up ahead, surely? She could crawl her way to Maegor’s Holdfast, surely? She could beat her and stab her and return her to the dirt when she belonged if only she could climb these steps. A splitting pain at the back of her head as she sighed told her otherwise.

“She’s going to fucking die anyway,” The Hound grunted. The black dragon soared above them through the holes in the ceiling. “You don’t… need to do it.”

Arya clawed up a step in anger and pain and declared her intent hoarsely. “Yes… I do!”

“Fuck off, no you don’t!” Sandor yelled, his voice betraying his agony. He lay prone on the floor, his sweaty hair matted to the blood dripping down his face and his broken hands clutching the broken bones within his chest. He moved a hand as if to reach out to her, but he was slightly too far, and he had lost the strength to move his dying body any further.

“You’ve got better places to be, Arya,” Sandor whispered.

Arya cried again, the tears cutting through the drying blood on her cheek. She had come all this way. And she had failed. The emotion that swept through her aching body was almost too much, and Arya rested her head on the nearest step and closed her eyes. He was right. Possibly. Maybe. It didn’t make it hurt any less.

She had trained under assassins and water-dancers, killed and butchered and stole and fought so that she could get to this day. So that she could finish the bloody prayer she had beseeched to whatever god was willing to listen. Arya wanted it to end.

She wanted to go home. Oh by the Gods, she just wanted to go home.

When Arya looked back up, the Hound’s chest had drawn to a bitter stillness, and his hands rested quietly at his side amongst the pooling blood. Another name off her list, even if she had taken it off years ago. She’d left him then. Abandoned him in the name of justice and to seek out her vengeance. In an odd way, Arya realised that the Hound had cared for her, to have begged her to stay as he did.

If Arya could have screamed at the loss, she would have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> Cleganebowl was gonna happen, and as much as I would love the Hound to survive, I just wanna bullet point why (I'm aware I wrote an essay about Theon without intending to)  
\- Sandor and Arya, to me, are two sides of the same coin. He has been on the path of vengeance so long that it defines him. This is where he is important to Arya, as a cautionary tale.  
\- It's poetic they beat the shit out of each other and both die because all they've done their entire lives is beat the shit out of each other and no one wins  
\- Arya should've been there. End of. Arya would not just turn around during her quest for vengeance because Sandor told her to. She would stop because she CAN'T.
> 
> In summary: I love the Hound and this was hard to write, for both how heartbreaking failing was for Arya, and also bc I really didn't want to kill Sandor but I knew I kinda had to for his arc
> 
> [side note: I am also aware that I promised my battles would come out in quick succession, just like with BoW... but these have been so hard to write (and weren't pre-written like BoW was) that I really wanna make sure they are edited and decent, to do these characters justice]


	59. Jaime IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A madman sees what he sees."

The vanguard swept throughout the city streets like the rolling of sea waves, splitting apart to cover as much ground as possible. Secure the city, Daenerys had commanded, street by street, alley by alley. Then, if only the Red Keep remained lost to us, we still had the people.

It was smart, he supposed. When Jaime looked up, he could see Daenerys atop her beast raining fire on the towers of the Red Keep, her fury aimed at that building alone. That didn’t stop her from destroying the walls and the inner towers of course, but they held scorpions, and even Jaime knew the Mother of Dragons could not stand to lose another of her children.

Ahead of them, there was little resistance. It was almost as if Cersei had lost most of her damn army. Well, they had had reports in the past week that the southern lords were abandoning her by the dozens, to which Jaime worried. What had she done to them? What had she become? Cersei had never been the political mastermind she thought she was, but rarely had she been so stupid as to drive away the people protecting her.

An older boy in Lannister armour launched towards him, his spear held incorrectly in his gloved hands. Jaime dodged, swiftly and precisely, and jabbed his sword forward as to scare the boy, not hit him. Nevertheless, he did not stop, and the young soldier pounced again with his weapon, and Jaime had no choice but to run his sword through his gut. Jaime sighed wearily as the young lad dropped to the ground, dead, blood spilling from his mouth. He looked about Tommen’s age. He had the hair to match.

“Ser Jaime, come on!” Ser Davos rang out from further up ahead.

They had to be quick. No battle points, just continuous and swift domination. They were to be dragons on the ground. A dragon doesn’t stay where it is to fight. Jaime sprinted towards him, where he stood with Jon and Grey Worm. 

“Lannister, you come with me,” Grey Worm commanded. “Jon-”

“Secure the rest of the city and loop around to the Red Keep, I know.” Jon interrupted. There was no time to talk.

“Let’s go,” Davos added, patting Jon on the back of his shoulder. Jon spared a single resolute nod to the two other men and charged away with his segment of the army.

Grey Worm still looked at Jaime bitterly, blaming him by extension for Missandei’s death. It was irrational, of course, Jaime was not under the control of Cersei anymore, but he did not question it. In recent days his glare had softened, and Jaime suspected that Daenerys had instructed him to back off.

But a commander was a commander, and the two set off towards the direction of the Red Keep, their orders to prevent any escape in its outskirts by the Queen and to secure the main structure of the building. If there’s any structure left, of course.

With every street they passed through, with every ill-equipped and ill-trained soldier they fought, Jaime’s heart dropped further. Every single civilian they saw cowering behind shutters looked as if they starved. They looked maimed, and afraid. Cersei had done this to the population he had strived to save some twenty years ago. There were even malnourished corpses strewn across the roads.

He tried not to look at them.

The Red Keep loomed closer and closer, Grey Worm taking his lead as to find the quickest path to the castle. The guards were chasing people out of the outer area of the Keep and driving them back into the city. Were they human shields or not?

Grey Worm launched forwards as one of the men guarding the gate notched his arrow, and in seconds the man lay dead against the stone. Jaime took out the other, his sword slashing through the ill-made armour given to the young man at the gate.

The rest of the men poured in, struggling to get through the gate in their sheer numbers. The men ahead of them trembled, their eyes growing wide as the feared Unsullied of Astapor, of Daenerys Targaryen, charged at them in their disciplined fury.

“Wait!” One shouted.

A few were cut down.

“Stop!” He said again.

More fell to the floor by Unsullied spears.

“Wait! Please! Stop! We yield!” Another yelled.

Jaime grabbed Grey Worm’s shoulder and stared at him. His eyes begged the younger man to listen.

“Please stop! We yield!” A man called out.

He wore only half his armour, and his sword was rusted and shield broken. The men at his side were to be the defenders of the castle. The last line of defence between the invading armies and the Queen. They weren’t equipped to be. They didn’t want to be.

“Ser! We’re begging you!” He yelled.

He and the men around him threw their blades to the ground and threw their hands up, their fingers trembling as they did. The Unsullied paused but kept their weapons ready, as the men defied their Queen and surrendered.

Jaime approached them slowly with his weapon still drawn.

“You yield?” Jaime asked, hopeful.

The two dragons roared overhead, and all of the men flinched as rubble from one of the towers fell nearby.

“I don’t speak for the rest of the armies, m’lord… but I’m not defending her. Not anymore.” The man murmured.

Grey Worm joined him as the man waited for their response. If they wished to turn this into a sack, they could butcher them and carry on. But Jaime did not want this to be a sack. Daenerys Targaryen did not want this to be a sack.

“Dovaogēdy! ōregon bisa qogron!” Grey Worm yelled to his men before turning back to the frightened man. “We accept.”

The Unsullied moved with practised grace to defend the gates dotted around the keep, encircled all exits from the castle. Jaime had told them of the shore exit as well, which Daenerys had ordered heavily defended. It would surely be the route Cersei would take to flee her grasp. Some of the Unsullied moved to capture the surrendered men instead, corralling them towards the stables to keep them hostage with bitter spears.

“Lannister, lead your group inside and secure Cersei Lannister. I will stay here as Mhysa has commanded.” Grey Worm declared boldly to Jaime.

Jaime did not know the man very well, nor his relationship with the Dragon Queen, but he could see it - the love, the loyalty. He wondered who was last to inspire men in such a way. Rhaegar, perhaps.

Jaime waved his hand to a small assortment of Unsullied, intermixed with a few Northerners for good measure. Seven. It wasn’t large, but he supposed it wasn’t his command, but his guards. They were his so that they ensured Jaime did not aid his sister in his escape and little more. Still, they listened to him as he beckoned them, and they followed him swiftly inside as rubble crumbled from above.

The Red Keep looked dirtier than it had ever been, Jaime noticed. Painting lay strewn on the floor, tables dusty and flowers long rotten. It was as if not a soul had cared for these halls in his absence. Not a servant, or a guard, or worse, Jaime realised, a Queen. When was the last time Cersei had come down here? The havoc caused downstairs was not from the fleeing of servants, or the attack by the Targaryen forces. It was neglect.

What awaited him above? What Cersei was he going to find?

He indicated for a small group of three Unsullied to secure the throne room, confident that Cersei had fled to Maegor’s Holdfast as she had done during Blackwater. Jaime found the nearest set of steps that led upwards and towards his destined destination, and ascended as swift as the wind would take him, the men under his care struggling behind.

The stone steps were crumbling, the walls half caved in by Dragonfire. Luckily, the stone did not burn easily, and while the walls had taken to melting around the edges, it would take more work for the Dragon Queen to reduce the infamous Red Keep to molten rock. Jaime climbed three steps at a time, his age showing as his breath became sharper in his chest. He’d worn his full plate, instead of simple leathers, anticipating a larger battle. But no battle had ever come.

The stairs were a spiral, and it felt eternal, as if he would keep climbing until he reached the sky, until he stood alongside the flight of dragons. Jaime turned one of the rounded corners to see a pile of bodies, of varying armours and sizes. Two Kingsguard, one much larger than the other, and two others. As Jaime slowed and dared closer, he realised who it was. The burned face of a now-dead man rested peacefully on the cold steps, his chest near caved in and his entire body drowned in blood. A few feet away was the body of Gregor Clegane, or what he assumed was him, his head caved in by a broken stone from the wall. Jaime almost smiled. Elia Martell had been avenged.

When he heard a small groan nearby, Jaime’s gaze snapped from the Mountain and to a smaller figure a few steps up. They too were drenched in blood, their hair matted together by sweat and gore. Jaime took a few tentative steps towards the soldier and moved the hair covering their bloodied face, and gasped.

It was Arya Stark. She wasn’t meant to be here. Jon Snow had left her in Winterfell, for her own safety. This was bad. Very, very bad.

“Men! Get her and take her back to the courtyard, have her attended to!” Jaime commanded. When the Northmen hesitated, Jaime’s ire grew. “_Now_!”

There were only two of them, and both moved to pick the young girl from the stone and take her to safety. They fled down the steps as carefully as they could. She was practically unconscious, the silence of the castle interrupted only by her groans and the roars of the dragons outside.

Jaime watched silently as they went, his concern for the Stark growing with each passing second. Stupid girl. He knew she wanted to kill Cersei, and he could not blame her. But a young girl is a young girl, and Jaime knew the world was not kind to them. But he had to move on, move up. Arya Stark would be taken care of by those below, and that was all he could do now. He needed to climb these steps, and end this war.

Jaime ran up again, faster this time, stronger this time until Maegor’s Holdfast drew nearer and nearer. He knew exactly where to go, where to turn. It was almost like muscle memory, seeking Cersei out in the dead of night, keeping her company, loving her, adoring her. Nearly every damn night.

The grand door to the inner fortress loomed ahead, but not a soul was around to guard it. When Jaime got near, he saw that it hadn’t even been shut properly, the light from the inner room’s sky ceiling spilling into his corridor. He walked carefully over the small bridge which separated the building from the rest of the Keep and reached out his golden hand to pry the door open.

Three swords darted out, pointed straight at his throat and primed to slaughter him.

“Jaime!” A woman called out. Cersei. “Put your swords down! Now!”

All three Kingsguard backed off and sheathed their swords, pacing back a few steps so that they stood by the pillars that encircled the painted map. Cersei stood at its centre, and Jaime’s mouth fell agape at the sight of her.

Her dress was a dirty and tattered red, its hems frayed and messy from dust. Her hair fell to her chin, jagged and greased, like that of a hag in the woods. But that was not what shocked him. Her eyes were wild, bloodshot and wide, and her face was sunken and depraved. The wine gut had not made itself known in her face, her cheeks thin and covered in the scratches of frantic nails.

Jaime took a gentle step forward, sheathing his sword for good measure. Cersei wasn’t able to kill him before, and he doubted, or rather hoped, she would not have it in her again.

Her smile was what disconcerted him the most. It was wide and garish, almost childlike in nature. When had Cersei last looked at him like that? Ten years? Twenty? The woman she had become after her marriage to Robert looked at him with her eyes. Eyes of lust. Of love. Of greed. 

“Oh, Jaime!” She wept as she smiled. “Oh, you’ve come back to me! I knew you would!”

How was he to tell her that this was not a homecoming? How was he to say that he had not come here for her? Cersei launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his armoured neck and feathering his sweaty face in kisses - hard, yet sweet at the same time. It reminded Jaime of when they were young. When they were hiding their love only to their father.

“You’ll protect me, won’t you? Better than anyone else can!” She said quickly and happily. “They’ve all left me, Jaime... But not you! Oh, you’ve come back! My lion, you are no coward, just like me!”

_ Her lion_. _ Hers, _ Jaime thought, _ No, Cersei, I am a lion in my own right. _

“Aren’t you going to say something?” She asked sweetly, though the bitterness he remembered seeped into her words nonetheless.

“It’s time to stop, Cersei,” Jaime replied quietly.

Cersei’s smile dropped slowly from her face, but her wild eyes remained, boring into his own with practised tenacity.

“Stop?” Cersei questioned, her voice equal parts innocent girl and malevolent hag. “Why would I stop?”

Jaime scoffed, unable to believe she would ask such an obtuse question. She was meant to be the smart one of the two, was she not? That’s what she’d always said to him. He’d always believed it to be true, at least.

“Have you looked outside?” Jaime asked, as calmly as he could. His head indicated to the smaller windows to their right, facing out to the expanse of the city below. They weren’t as big as the window balconies in her chambers, but they were enough to see. They were enough to _know_.

“My men will defend me to the last drop of their blood, Jaime.” She said, matter-of-factly. She truly believed it.

“_Your men _are nowhere to be found. Those that were left surrendered outside as I came in.” Jaime retorted.

Cersei wrangled herself from his grip and her eyes blazed with fury. “You’re lying!”

“No, I’m not!” Jaime snapped back.

The Kingsguard flinched as he shouted, but Cersei spared no look at them. Commanded them to do nothing. Cersei could hear the dragons, surely? She must hear what they were doing to the Keep. Hear me roar, the Lannisters often said, but it was only the roar of Targaryen beasts in the sky that pierced the battle's air.

If he could just get her to come quietly, then perhaps the execution would be kind. That’s what he wanted to believe at least. The only person in this blasted city not surrendering was her.

“Cersei, I’m begging you… end this. You know your position as Queen is unsustainable. The city has practically surrendered already.” Jaime said softly, inching towards her.

“No! Do not presume to tell me what my city does! Who I am! I am the Queen!” Cersei shrieked. “This my city! Not hers!”

Jaime flinched as her voice rang in his ears. At that moment, he saw what was in her eyes. He saw what had consumed her soul. The words that flowed from her mouth were not the words of a woman willfully ignorant, of a woman in denial. Burn them all, Aerys had said all those years ago. And his eyes had looked just like that.

Madness.

Jaime cleared a lump in his throat, tears threatening his eyes as the realisation dawned on him. The baby had pushed her over the edge - the edge she had danced for so many years. She had always been a cruel and bitter woman, but Jaime had always ignored it. He had accepted it as part of her nature. What a fool he was.

“I want her dead, Jaime!” She cried out again, her finger pointing straight into his plated chest. “Give me Daenerys Targaryen’s head on a pike!”

Jaime simply stared back at her in shock.

“No… No, no, no, no! She’s turned you! You’ve turned on me! This isn’t what’s meant to happen!” She wept, half sad, half angry. “No!”

“Shh… Cersei, wait, no...” Jaime whispered to her. He could hardly take on three Kingsguard with his left hand, and the tears that stained her cheeks reminded him of when they were younger, of when father commanded them to stay apart.

“I don’t need you! I will rule! I’ll find another man to give me my heir! House Lannister will rule for years to come, no thanks to you!” She continued loudly.

“Cersei, the baby, I’m so sor-”

“Shut up! Pitiful fool! If you were sorry you would give me her corpse!” Cersei interrupted, getting in his face, but the tears streamed down her face so quickly Jaime could hardly make out what she was saying.

“Cersei… they’re already in the Keep. And you hear that dragon! Tyrion and I will make sure you are treated fairly.” Jaime said softly. But then out came the lie. “She would let you live, if you surrender. But if you don’t...”

Daenerys Targaryen would not let Cersei see the end of this day, but Cersei needn’t know that. Jaime took her hand and held it in his gently. His eyebrows creased as his eyes begged her to listen, to concede. Just this once, let it be without bloodshed. Let a monarch of these Seven Kingdoms die by true justice, rather than a traitor’s blade or poison.

“This can end now, Cersei. Please let it.” Jaime continued, his tone desperate. 

Cersei’s face softened as she stared at their joined hands, and her lips trembled as she thought. Jaime said nothing more. He had nothing left to argue. The view from the window was his evidence.

Jaime had loved her, once. That much he knew to be true. He had accepted her bitter fate into his heart and let it rot, but it still pained him to see her so heartbroken, so lost in her own insanity. All three of their children, now a fourth, gone. They were with the Mother above, safe in her arms. Ir at least Jaime hoped. The Gods were cruel, to take their children from them, but with a mournful thought, Jaime realised perhaps the two of them had deserved it.

“Another little girl, Cersei. Can you imagine it? She can have hair as pretty as Myrcella’s… eyes as lovely green as yours.” Jaime continued, his hand caressing her face in the hopes she would listen. The thought of Myrcella saddened him, the image of her drying frame in his arms burned into his mind. "But she won’t exist if you stand here, alone, until the bloody end."

It pained him to lie to her so wickedly, just as she had done to him for so many years. But you must break oaths to keep others, he had come to realise - such was the way of this cruel world.

“Cersei, please,” Jaime said finally. His final plea. “If not for me, then for yourself. For the Lannisters. For family. Nothing else matters but that.”

Cersei's face contorted, moulding into an expression he could not quite place. It was almost serene. Calm. Jaime held his breath as he awaited her words.

“Men,” Cersei called out to the three surrounding them. “Ring the bells.”

The three black knights bolted from the room without a second thought, scurrying to signal the surrender. Jaime nearly sobbed in happiness but kept it in as Cersei launched into a hug. He rested his head on her matted hair and sighed, glad he had done something right for once.

They exchanged no more words, for they did not need them. Cersei would believe she would live to see another day, and Jaime would know that she would not. Let the bells ring, Jaime thought, and let it end. And if it must end in lies, then so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dovaogēdy! ōregon bisa qogron = Unsullied! Hold the line!


	60. Jon XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The bells in the seven towers of the Great Sept of Baelor had tolled for a day and a night, the thunder of their grief rolling across the city in a bronze tide. They only rang the bells for the death of a king, a tanner's boy told Arya."

Jon was tired of the fighting. He wanted to go home.

The men they battled against were helpless in the face of trained soldiers, and for that, Jon pitied them. Any who surrendered, they spared - most of whom were younger boys who had nearly shit their breeches at the sight of Drogon and Rhaegal. He couldn’t blame them, for when he had first seen the great beasts at Dragonstone he had tripped over his own damn feet.

Another man, older and bolder, charged at Jon with his sword, but Davos swung around to cut the man down from behind. There were bodies everywhere. Soldiers who had been brave enough to stand in their way, and civilians long dead - their bodies testament to the cruelty of Cersei Lannister. She cared not for the people here, only her own crown.

Daenerys wasn’t like that, Jon pondered as they continued their race through the streets. Daenerys cared for her men. Her soldiers, her people. Some may have resisted her, or still do, but that did not make her care for them any less. She was like a mother, he realised, who nurtured and disciplines her children no matter how unruly they became. Perhaps such a comparison would have saddened her, some months ago. Perhaps it saddened her across the sea to be called Mhysa. But not now. Daenerys was going to be a mother. To his child. That’s what ran through his head, with every man he cut down.

In the next street, the soldiers stood and defended what looked like a guard’s outpost, but with each and every slash of a blade, they fell. They were quick, running through the streets. The faster they secured the city, the faster this battle would be over, though it was not as if Cersei Lannister’s men were putting up much of a fight. A man a few paces ahead of him bolted at the sigh of two Northmen charging at him, but Jon pulled the two men back as they moved to follow. There was enough bloodshed already.

Jon spotted a little girl hiding in the side of an alleyway, her hair long and brown, almost like Arya’s had been as a child. Beside her, no adults were around, and Jon worried she had been abandoned in the chaos that was occurring. He stepped out from the line of soldiers to reach out to her, but the little girl flinched at his hand.

“Shh… it’s alright,” Jon said softly. He had no intention of frightening the poor child. “Everything will be alright soon.”

The little girl trembled as she kept herself mostly hidden behind a crate of weaponry. Her big blue eyes cut through him, armed with fear and distrust. He shifted on his feet under the intensity of the young child's glare. Behind him, there were the telltale sounds of men clashing in battle, but for the most part, the city was falling quieter with each passing moment. The battle was being won.

Jon waved over a woman peering out of a nearby door, calling her to collect the frightened child. The woman hesitated, the fine wrinkles on her tanned face wary at the sight of the Northerner. When the woman realised Jon did not mean to kill her, she ran out to yank the child from where she stood in the alley, backing away as Jon watched on.

They were fearful. He supposed he should not have expected any less. They were in a city under siege, protected by no one. Cersei Lannister would not defend them, for she had starved them for the better part of weeks. And for all they knew, Daenerys Targaryen was a monster born of the seed of the Mad King. Jon knew those rumours were wrong, but they didn’t.

The chain behind him had continued its march in his absence, and so Jon broke out into a run to catch up with his men at the front. Davos looked weary as he approached.

“How many streets left?” Jon asked quickly.

“Not many,” Davos replied, “The larger Unsullied group that Red Flea’s leading will likely be going quicker than us lot.”

“Hm, most likely,” Jon murmured.

As they turned the corner of the long street, Jon realised he must now be on the street of sisters. The road was long and straight, both Rhaenys’ and Visenya’s hills visible from where he stood near a small intersection of roads. He’d seen it in many of Maester Luwin’s history books. On one end, the husk of what must have been the Great Sept, and the other, the Dragon Pit. On this road, Jon could hear more of the fighting, the sharp ringing of swords and yelling of men, the concentration of which was clearly greater the closer you got to the Red Keep. 

As Jon turned, a small cohort of Lannister men approached, their weapons shakily drawn. Jon sighed, as none dared to strike and move. His own men encircled them, giving them the space they needed to surrender, but on their toes enough to strike them down should they pounce.

A bell rang out in the distance.

Soon, the single bell was joined by others, their thundering tolls echoing throughout the city similar to the roars of a dragon. All of them looked up and around, confusion etched across their faces. A few of the Lannister men’s sword arms relaxed, unsure of what to do now. The bells did not stop, crashing again and again as nothing seemed to happen.

“What’s happening?” One of the Lannister soldiers cried out.

“Do we stop?” Another said.

Everything and everyone froze. The Lannister men let go of the hilts of their blades, which crashed to the floor as they dropped them in defeat. Davos and Jon looked at each other warily. The bells still hadn’t stopped.

“Is Cersei surrendering?” Jon asked quietly.

“Jon,” Davos said bluntly, the fear clear in his words, “I’ve never known bells to mean surrender.”

At those words, Jon’s heart froze. What did he mean? What was happening? Surely that was what this was - a capitulation in the face of guaranteed defeat? Jon’s eyes shot up to the sky to see Daenerys flying overhead in the distance, the silhouette of her largest son blocking out the nearly setting sun along the Street of Sisters.  Both dragons roared, circling around the outskirts of the Red Keep, holding off Dragonfire as the bells tolled.  _ She must be confused as well _ , Jon thought.

A few moments later, a large rider, clad in black steel, charged through the crowd. In his hand was a flame, which he held high as he yelled and galloped through the soldiers. None reacted quick enough to his charge to cut him down. He barraged into Jon and Davos, nearly knocking the two men down onto the muddy ground.

_ I’ve never known bells to mean surrender _ .

“Davos! Get to the Keep, find the Queen!” Jon bellowed as instinct kicked in, and he scrambled from where he stood to grab the reins of a nearby horse.

“What?!” Davos yelled. “Where are you going?!”

“After him!” Jon replied loudly, mounting the black steed. “Protect my wife!”

With that, Jon galloped away from his men, his leg kicking into the horse, spurring him to go faster. His gut was upturned, screaming at him that something was wrong. Very wrong. Something he had to stop.

Jon charged through his own men, and Lannisters, through civilians who had left their shelters in hope that it was over. A few looked up at him in fear, a few in confusion. It didn’t matter, for the black rider was up ahead.

The man noticed him, his large helmet twisted enough to spot Jon slowly gaining ground behind him. They were heading up the Street of Sisters straight up towards the Dragon Pit, though they were nowhere near it in true distance. The street was long enough to fool any man.

When Jon inched close enough, he unsheathed Longclaw in an attempt to slash at the knight, but the rider used his flame to block the harsh blow. Both horses trembled at the fight happening atop of them as they galloped at breakneck speed.

Jon pounced again, nearly losing his balance on his horse and overreaching to stab at the man’s ribs. He nicked him between the plate of his Kingsguard armour, enough to hurt, but not to kill. The rider yelped in pain, but could not clutch his side without letting go of either his torch or his horse. Why did he need the torch so badly? The sun had not even set.

The rider lashed out with the raised torch, to which Jon dodged by slinking backwards and moving his head. It was too close for comfort. With the final and reactive swing of his blade, Jon cut into the side of the horse the knight rode instead, causing it to stumble and cry as it descended to the ground, the rider with it.

Jon launched himself from his horse to meet the knight in true combat, Longclaw already up in the air to bring down a mighty swing before the man could even move. Instead, the knight rolled, desperate to reclaim his nearby torch and flee. Jon tried to beat him to it, his boots skidding in the mud as he did. 

He pounced, Longclaw striking the man right between his feet, missing him entirely. Jon let out a frustrated yell. The knight looked behind him frantically, but then, Jon swore he heard him laugh.

Jon kicked him square in the gut, winding him and causing him to keel over to the ground.  The man did not rise from where he knelt quick enough, and Jon angrily swung down his sword and lodged it into the side of the man’s neck, not quite covered by his black armour, but not quite severing it. Blood poured freely from his neck, drenching his night-black armour with a tint of red liquid. The knight chuckled, though the sound was a half gargle as blood swelled in his throat.

“Too… late…” The knight breathed out before he fell face-first into the mud, his torch snuffed out by the contents of the once-busy road. Jon heaved a sigh of relief as the man seemed to finally pass.

All Jon could hear was his breath, and the sound of the bronze bells still crashing in the distance. But then, he heard something else.

He couldn’t place it. Crashes. Bangs. Then thunder. It was like the stomping of feet, no, it  _ was  _ the stomping of feet. Running feet. Jon turned from the knight laying on the floor to see the Sept behind him, and the horde of civilians running in his direction.

Even farther in the distance, Jon heard the sound of something exploding.

The crowd met him, just like the horses had done at Winterfell against Ramsay, rushing past him in their screams and fearful shouts. Behind them, they dragged with them their children, who could not keep up with the terrified sprints of their parents. There was another explosion. Closer this time.

It was then, Jon realised, he hadn’t stopped anything.

Jon was shoved to the ground by the barrage of men and women, but he scrambled back up as quickly as he could as he made his way to run with them. He pushed them, urging them to go faster, to flee from what was coming for them. For him.

“Go! Go! Faster!” He yelled at them.

Another explosion.

Another.

Another.

Oh, Gods, the screaming. It was getting closer.

Jon dared to turn his head from the direction he ran, and his chest caved into a hole, his fear freezing so hard inside him it shattered like ice. In the distance, he saw the small figure of a young boy and his mother fleeing from the fire behind them, their hands intertwined. By the next time he blinked, the sea of green fire had consumed them, and their screams had died on the wind.

The rolling of the fire spreading from the explosions had outpaced them. It was outpacing  _ him _ .  Jon turned to run, faster and harder than he had ever done before. He looked up to the sky as he ran in the midst of the crowd, desperate to spot the end of a wing or the slither of a tail. He wanted to see silver-gold hair and kind eyes.

“Dany,” Jon whispered to the sky as the scalding heat behind him drew nearer. It was part plea, part promise.

He heard those around him in the crowd scream. He felt the flicker of hot flame on his skin, the painful melting of leather and fabric and skin and bone. 

And then nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY. I PHYSICALLY CANNOT BE MORE SORRY.


	61. Jaime X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So many vows... they make you swear and swear. Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It's too much. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or the other."

The hug was soft. Kind. So unlike anything Cersei had ever offered him. Sweeter than any act she had ever done for him. It was strange, but Jaime relished it for the few moments he could have it. He had declared to Tyrion at Winterfell that his love for Cersei was all but gone, but a slither of it remained. 

Was it love? Or nostalgia? A reminder of his childhood, or a life he could have had? He had dreamed of that, often. Of whisking Cersei away from the cruelties of Robert Baratheon and the royal court and raising their children in peace. Every time he had walked by the harbour, he imagined booking travel across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities. Somewhere they could love each other without anyone knowing who they were.

He’d brought it up with Cersei, once, and she had slapped him. It was foolish. The King would hunt them down for what he thought was his heirs, and Jaime would be executed for desertion of the Kingsguard. Their father would have disapproved, for they were his legacy. A part of Jaime knew the deeper reason. Here, she was the Queen, abused yet respected, and still loved by Jaime. Across the sea, she would have only him.

Cersei still had not released him from her grasp, her hands bound around his waist as if he would leave any second. Maybe she knew that. Maybe she knew any second the Unsullied would come and drag her away.

Jaime flinched at the sound of explosions. His eyes searched the room frantically for its source. But, deep down, he knew where it came from. He pulled back from her slowly, his left hand pulling hers from his waist.

Jaime stumbled fearfully to the small bay windows on the other side of the room, wrenching open the shutters that hid her starving kingdom from her sight. His mouth fell agape and his eyes watered at the hellscape in front of him.  Bursts of green sprouted in their dozens across the city, waves of fire darting through the narrow city streets. With every explosion, Jaime heard the sharp screams of the people, and after that, the screaming of those unlucky enough to not be immediately disintegrated.  The sky was sickly. Black smoke rose from the burning city below in a matter of seconds, and Jaime wept as he collapsed to his knees in front of the window.

“No…” Jaime whispered in horror, a sob ripping from his throat.

More fire. More screaming. The explosions had already finished their assault but the firestorm it had caused was ravaging what was left of the city he had once protected. Mad Aerys’ last wish, fulfilled.  The dragons were wailing, a mournful cry that Jaime had not heard since the insurrection. But it was sharper this time, longer, louder. Worse. The riderless one kept circling a spot near the Dragonpit, while the Dragon Queen’s steed bulleted back to the Red Keep to land.  Jaime let the tears stream down his sweaty cheeks as he realised what Cersei had truly done. He had been a fool. He had believed she would come quietly in search of a quieter death. He had just wanted to do the kinder thing. The right thing. 

Behind him, Cersei had not moved from her spot on the map. Jaime spared a glance at her, his neck bending around his armoured shoulder, fearful of her gaze. Her look was inquisitive, curious.  _ Happy _ . A small smile graced her mouth, but the smile did not seem cold or mischievous. It seemed like the smile of a joyful child. Her sickly green eyes betrayed her madness, though, the beauty of what he once considered perfect emeralds tainted by the fires below. Jaime had never imagined Cersei would follow in the Mad King’s footsteps.

_ Burn them all _ .

Jaime heaved himself from the ground, grabbing at the window for purchase. There were no bells anymore, tolling outside. There was just the crackle of fire. The distant piercing of screams. He staggered towards her, slowly, tentatively.

She glided to meet him, her dry and cracked hands grasping at his face to plant a kiss on his mouth. When he did not kiss back, she recoiled.

“My lion, what is wrong?” She asked sweetly.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime asked incredulously, his voice quiet. She simply smiled back, her head tilting as if she were a confused hound.

“We can rule now, Jaime… There’s no one else in our way! You can abandon your loyalty to that whore, she has lost!” Cersei said quickly and hopefully.

_ No, you are lost _ , Jaime thought.

She grabbed his hands to feather them with kisses, but Jaime simply kept his back straight as if he were a knight, as if he were a soldier.

“We’ll have more children. We’ll have an heir to the Kingdoms, the one I was promised. I will be Queen to rule over them all.” She continued, grasping his hands tighter with every word.

“Rule over who, Cersei? The people-” Jaime snapped.

“The lion does not concern himself with the opinion of the sheep. That’s what father always said.” Cersei interrupted gleefully. Jaime remembered. “And what is the purpose of sheep except for slaughter?”

Jaime’s mouth dropped open in shock. He stammered, at a complete loss at what to say.

“They’re not sheep, Cersei. They’re  _ people _ .” Jaime said harshly, wet tears on his cheeks. “They have families and hopes and dreams and  _ lives _ !”

Cersei’s face was expressionless, her eyes no more than empty glass.

“They’re whatever I want them to be,” She said bluntly, disregarding his words.

Jaime closed his eyes. No remorse. No tactical explanation except to leave Daenerys Targaryen with a city of ash. She thought this was her winning stroke. That her kingdom was secure. Grief filled him like hot water, every inch of it burning his blood and compelling tears to flow from him. How many had she just killed? A hundred thousand? Three hundred? More?

Jaime sighed shakily and pulled Cersei back into an embrace. She accepted it hungrily, her smile pushing on his shoulder as she believed what she wanted to believe. She could believe his touch was acceptance, commendation. Jaime’s lip trembled, and his heart froze with fear, and also with a sadness he had never truly known.

“I love you, Jaime,” Cersei whispered, her voice muffled amongst his leathers and armour.

She loved him. He was her lion, she had said so herself. Father of her children. Brother. Lover. Only confidante. He existed to serve her, because he thought she loved him. Because he thought he loved her. She saw him as the only person she could truly trust in this world, the only person she saw who dared to love her. 

Had she ever truly loved him? Or the idea of him? Was he no more than her reflection in the mirror? Perhaps if she stared into the looking glass, she would see they were not the same. Alas, it would matter not. A madman sees what he sees, and Jaime saw her for what she was, and his heart shattered at the thought of it. The Cersei he had once borne his young heart too had died - and the true face of her had stepped into the light. No remorse. No sanity. No mercy. The only mercy Jaime had left to give this world, and give Cersei, hung at his side.

“I don’t believe you,” Jaime whispered mournfully in her ear.

With his left hand, Jaime grabbed the small dagger hanging from his belt and shoved it into Cersei’s chest, just above her stomach. She yelped in pain, pulling back from Jaime both at his words, and at the sharp steel which had penetrated her skin. She looked down, and then back to Jaime, her eyes betrayed and slowly filling with rage as the pain became greater.

“N-No… No! No! No! I cannot die! I am the Queen!” Cersei shrieked as she staggered backwards. She grasped a small table perched on the edges of the painted map, but missed and fell, stumbling further backwards to the yard’s centre.

Jaime wept, openly, hard. He reached out to her, his hands intent on cradling her as she passed from this world, but she slapped them away.

“Shh… Cersei… please,” Jaime said softly, sadly. He had wanted her death to be kind.

“No!” She shouted, an angry sob wracking through her body as she lay fully on the painted floor. Her hands shakingly grasped the blade, and her face contorted in anger as Jaime moved to kneel beside her.

“Shh...”

“No! No! No!” Cersei shrieked, though her strength had left her as quickly as the blood from her chest. “You! You horrid man! Curse you! Curse...”

And with her last angry breath, Cersei’s hands fell from the blade she grasped and her head collapsed to the floor below. Her chest came to a silent stop, and the rage that had once filled her eyes was replaced by a glassy stare. Jaime stared blankly at her for a few seconds, his shaking hands hovering over her lifeless form.

Cersei’s blood stained the floor around her, painting across the green banks of the Trident and the Neck. Jaime reached his hand tentatively to her cheek, his fingers covered in blood. Her blood. He began to weep as silence filled the room.

Jaime looked back up to the window to the city, the sight unbearable. The screams had died, replaced by the raging crackle of burning wood and stone. She had done this. She, who he had once loved so dearly, had unleashed the wrath of hell upon this city. He had killed her for it.

Kingslayer, they had whispered behind his back all his life. Queenslayer, he was now. Whether he would declare it proudly or not, he did not know. For this time, he had saved no souls. Jaime sobbed as he came to this bitter conclusion.  His blade had been a mercy to Cersei, but what mercy had she ever offered those below? No matter what he did, someone suffered. Someone was betrayed. Some oath had been broken, for so many he had taken.  _ In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent _ , he had told Brienne. The most important one, Jaime reckoned. Had he done that, just now?

Guilt consumed him, and Jaime Lannister, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, Kingslayer, Queenslayer, man without honour, sobbed violently as he looked on at the burning city ahead of him, and the sister he had just murdered at his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated ardently defending myself in the author notes the last chapter, despite some insulting comments, but I have decided against it on this one, for this chapter is for Cersei and the overall story.
> 
> You may note a similarity between Show!Dany's death and Cersei's here. It's on purpose. Dany's death in the show always hit me as being for the wrong characters. It was the blind ignorance of a madwoman and the newfound righteous man. When I watched that scene, it screamed Jaime and Cersei. When I planned this story out, Jaime killing Cersei for setting off wildfire was always going to happen.
> 
> I suppose you could say the 'moral' of this tale is this... the game of thrones is played whether you like it or not. If you do not play, you will suffer its consequences anyway. If you try to be noble and honourable, someone more malicious than you will come along. Cersei Lannister wished to keep her throne. Cersei Lannister cared for Cersei Lannister, and for Cersei Lannister's crown.  
How many people just died in King's Landing, from both wildfire and starvation, because Cersei did not care for them? Because she saw them as pawns in her quest for power? Do you think they deserved it? No, of course not. That's the point.  
No matter how horrible they may be, people are people. Like Jon, they had hopes and dreams and lives they were living. And Cersei Lannister took that from them when she decided to play her final hand, when she decided the game of thrones was more important to her than anything else.
> 
> Again, I understand the previous chapter has caused anger. I'll take it. I'm writing this for fun. I'm writing this so my imagination can go wild on what could have happened on television last spring. If you hate it, okay. If you want to stop reading it, okay. For those who may stay, despite the evidently not-fairytale-like ending, thank you for reading.
> 
> Next chapter will be up shortly.


	62. Daenerys XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children."

Daenerys screamed as the city below her caught alight, the heat of it rushing into the air and filling her with dread, with horror. Every street, every alley, every house and yard and shop, had been burned away by a garish green fire. She didn’t even know where it had come from, the green explosions bursting out of everywhere and nowhere at once. Drogon pulled up, his wings beating faster and stronger to go higher, farther away from the fires below. Rhaegal screamed as he pulled up just a second too late, the edges of his wings singed by the heat of the flames.

“Drogon! Drogon, no!” Daenerys yelled in horror. “Drogon, land!”

She scrambled to look below her, to witness the chaos that had been unleashed upon the city. The sight of the fires were horrifying, but they were not what made Daenerys weep. It was the screaming.  Rhaegal regained his flight and darted ahead of her and his brother, a mournful wail ripping from his throat of the like she had not heard since Viserion had crashed into the ice. Her heart and mind immediately went to Jon.

“Drogon!” Daenerys screamed. “Land! Please!”

A dragon was not a slave, but her son could not deny the begging of his beloved mother. Yet, he did not land, not least where she wanted him to, not in the city. He circled back around to the Red Keep, which she had swiftly ceased assaulting the moment the bells rang. Was her flight around the city not supposed to be in victory?

Drogon landed violently in a large courtyard area near the top of the Red Keep’s mighty steps. Daenerys let go of Drogon’s leathery hard scales before his legs had even touched the ground below, and she bolted to dismount her largest dragon as quickly as she could.

She stumbled as she fell off of him, her legs feeling brittle as she staggered worriedly through the arch ahead of her that led to the top of the steps. When she emerged from the darkness of the arch, Daenerys’ knees almost gave way in horror. The city ahead of her rose in billows of smoke and ash, the fires barely having ceased since she first witnessed them above. A section of it, closer to the Dragonpit, burned less than the rest, but Daenerys found her eyes unable to bear the havoc.

She panicked down the steps, launching over dead Lannister men and fallen blades as she bolted for the gates that led into the city proper. The entire yard had been overrun by her people, their faces bloodied, their bodies burned, their groans deafening. They poured in by the dozens, the hundreds and Daenerys looked frantically from each face to the next, her eyes wide in shock and grief as she witnessed firsthand what had been unleashed upon them. Indelicately, she shoved aside her own men so as to reach the gates, but an older hand to her side reached out to halt her.

“Your Grace!” Ser Davos yelled above the chaos.

She barely heard him. Not because of the sounds around them, but because of the panic that had rushed into her body. She tried to tackle past him, but Davos’ hand was firm as it grabbed her shoulder.

“Daenerys!” He yelled again.

She looked at him then, her eyes wide in childish fear. His face was dirty and covered in soot and blisters, but he seemed mostly unharmed. His clothes, however, bore scorch marks and were in tatters.

“Where’s Jon?” Daenerys asked hoarsely.

Davos said nothing but merely turned his head to the gates behind him where the population poured in to seek aid. All of them were in distress. Their skin was blistered and they were covered in ash and blood. Jon was in the city with them. Jon was in the fires.

“No, no, no, no, no… Davos, I-I need to… I need to find him!” She shouted.

“No, Daenerys, you need to stay here, it’s not safe!” He snapped back.

She smacked him away in anger, as he called her by her name again, irritating her as he stopped her from doing what she wanted to do. What she needed to do. But, Daenerys found herself unable to move from where she stood amongst the crowd, her eyes fixed on the shifting tides of people around her, all calling out for help. It smelled metallic. Like blood that had been boiled. And it smelled like flesh. Daenerys nearly gagged as she breathed in.

Ahead of her, Daenerys spotted Gendry being dragged in by his men, yelling in pain as his face was drenched in blood. His left arm looked burned, but the rest of his body had been spared. He caught her eyes, his young eyes boring into hers in pain. Behind him, lords of her vanguard were carried on stretchers, some of them already clearly gone from this world. Lord Manderly. Yohn Royce. A few of the younger Northern lords who had remained loyal to her despite their fathers' treacheries.

Daenerys stayed frozen with fear. Frozen with helplessness. She could feel the people around looking at her, her bright silver-gold hair a sore thumb amongst the blood and melted skin. What could she do for these people right now? She was the mother of dragons, queen of fire - how would she treat their burns?

Davos grasped her hand gently as she looked around fearfully. Behind him, stood Grey Worm, whose eyes brimmed with tears of relief that his Queen lived. He looked no better than Davos, his leather armour half-destroyed and his face covered in ash. He seemed mostly unhurt, though. He stepped forward too, so as to guide her.

“I will send men out to look for him, to bring him home, so that we may help him.” Grey Worm whispered, his voice filled with unfamiliar optimism. It was when she heard his voice, she knew he was lying.

Davos and Grey Worm guided her back up the steps, though they stopped about a quarter of the way up. This way, she could see if he walked into the courtyard. She could see if he needed help. She wanted to see his face, spot his hair, just as she had longed to do atop her dragon. She wanted to notice the speck of him amongst the crowd.  She sat on the steps as her dragons circled the dusk sky. Or at least she thought it was dusk. She did not know because of all the ash and smoke. Minutes passed. Then hours. And still, nothing.

She had ordered Grey Worm to assemble medical tents and places where people may rest their dead. She had commanded Red Flea and some others to sweep the city for survivors, and to bring them to the Keep for help if they could be moved. She did anything but think of Jon Snow.

Night had fallen on the city, but the light of the fires still burned bright around them, filling the sky without a dull glow. Neither was it cold, the heat of the flames warming her even from here. She and Davos sat side by side on the dusty steps, their hands nearly touching as they sought out the warmth of one another. The city still burned, still raged, and Daenerys looked on in misery at it.

At some point during their vigil, Grey Worm approached her with a comforting hand.

“The Lady Arya has been moved into the Keep to recover, Mhysa.” Grey Worm said to her firmly. “The tents are overflowing, so I thought she might be safer inside.”

“Grey Worm,” Daenerys said sadly as she acknowledged him. He looked at her with a curious eye. “Please don’t call me Mhysa. Not right now.”

Her loyal man said not another word and returned to his sentinel guard a few steps down, guarding her against threats. Though, she imagined, there were few threats left.  She could not bear to hear his affection for her at this moment. She was no mother. She was no protector. To call her Mhysa would be false, she felt, for coming to this city to reclaim it she did not bring them freedom. Only death.

This wasn’t the city she wanted. This isn’t what she had imagined, not this morning, or any other day before that. She had promised fire and blood upon many, but never on these people. Never on any she felt did not deserve it. She didn’t want  _ this _ . This wasn’t beautiful. There were no fat men, for they were starving. There were no pretty maids, for their faces had been burned. And there were no laughing children, for their voices had died as screams on the wind.

Cersei had stolen that from her.

She hadn’t even thought of the woman, she didn’t want to think about the woman, for all it did was make her blood boil. She wanted Jon. She wanted him in front of her, his kind smile looking at her as he relished in winning another fight. Another great glory to add to his list. If her dreams would come true, he would come back and check on his wife and their child, and all would be well.

A group of Unsullied rushed towards them, but behind their black helmets, Dany could see none of them smiled. Behind them, there was no man on a stretcher. There was no man with coal-black hair and a kind face being carried.

She launched up from her seat to stand, her eyes frozen on Grey Worm, who had run to meet the small group. They whispered and gestured, but all their shoulders were slack in defeat. One of them handed Grey Worm an object, and Daenerys and Davos sucked in deep breaths as he slowly turned around.

In his hand, a blade.

The sword itself looked as if not a thing had ever touched it, its steel markedly of Valyrian make. Its hilt had been burned black, the small animal head on it etched and moulded by the heat of the flames it had been in. But you could still see. You could still know. The hilt of the blade had once been white. A white wolf.

Daenerys didn’t move, her eyes locked on the blade, and then at Grey Worm’s own weeping eyes. She heard nothing but her own laboured breath.

_ Is this what drowning felt like? _ Daenerys wondered.  _ Was it the feeling of ice water crushing your broken body, as you tried your hardest to see through the dark? _ No tears fell, but her jaw clenched, her eyes watered, her fists tight. 

No, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. That can’t be his. She wouldn’t  _ let it _ be his. Her eyes twitched as she looked at it longer and her lungs struggled to gain the air it so desperately needed. Jon had to be alive, for what would she do without him?

She felt numb. She felt like she was dead.

Without a second thought, Daenerys turned on her heel to flee from the burned blade, stumbling up the steps and towards the castle she had reclaimed. That she and Jon had reclaimed.

She wanted to break down. She wanted to wail and scream and burn it all down - but the numbness did not fade as she walked. Her walk was aimless, back through the archway that had led her to this hell, and past her largest son as he, too, wailed in grief. Daenerys stumbled around the keep, her vision blurring and her hands grasping at the cold stone wall for balance. It was all too red, the walls, the floor. It looked too much like blood.

Her weary feet dragged her in no direction at all, and Daenerys does not know where she longed to escape to. To Meereen? To Pentos? Or Vaes Dothrak? Winterfell? She knew none of these was the answer. She knew it is Jon she longed for.

As she turned a corner, her breath hitched as she realised where her feet had unknowingly taken her. The doors were open, revealing inside the one thing she had desired her whole life. The Iron Throne.

Daenerys stumbled inside, mesmerised by the grey iron standing silent and solitude at the other end of the long hall. For a few seconds, she felt as if the pain that had rendered her heart in two had been subdued, the throne ahead of her forcing her to drink milk of the poppy. With every step, Daenerys felt worse. Ill. Sickly. The room was covered in debris and rubble, the soft sprinkling of ash flaking from the broken windows and caved-in ceiling. When she climbed the pedestal’s first step, the realisation overcame her.

She had won. This throne was hers.

It didn’t feel like victory. It did not feel like a homecoming. Behind her, stood no one. Not her mother, or Viserys. No Jorah, no Barristan, no Missandei and now… no Jon. Her first tears of grief began to stream down her pale face as she dared closer to the iron. The throne was cold and hard, and uninviting. It threatened her as her small hand reached towards it. When her soft skin finally touched the cold arm of the throne, it was not relief that washed over her, nor triumph. It was pain. The unbridled joy she had imagined as she dreamed of this moment was instead replaced by cold and lonely grief.

_ You’ll get that throne you want so badly _ , Daario had told her on the day she left Meereen, the day she had set out to reclaim her family’s stolen kingdoms.  _ I hope it brings you happiness _ , he had said.

With Daario’s words ringing in her ears, Daenerys, finally and truly the First of Her Name, collapsed to the floor in front of her bloodied Iron Throne and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter summary quote has always been quite a heartbreaking sentence from Dany, and I'd been waiting to use it for what is quite possibly, the antithesis to her desire for her kingdom.
> 
> It was actually this chapter that I'd originally written as a one-shot (albeit without a lot of the context behind it), which I then decided to make into a fully-fledged fic.
> 
> You'll get that throne you want so badly. I hope it brings you happiness. Perhaps the most unintentionally wisest words ever to spill from the mercenary's mouth.


	63. Jaime XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nothing isn't better or worse than anything. Nothing is just... nothing."

The room had grown dark hours ago. Jaime still hadn’t moved. He sat against one of the pillars with his weary arms resting on his knees. He looked at Cersei, lifeless and cold, a few metres away. He didn’t want to move. He knew he had to.

The Red Keep was huge, and the distracted Targaryen forces were busy controlling the wailing masses below, rather than meticulously sweeping the castle. Jaime was glad for it, in a way. It had allowed him time to cry and scream, but it had also given him time to think. All he could do was think. It was all too much. Jaime’s eyes burned with spent tears and he was tired. So tired. How did it come to this? Could he have stopped her? Should he have known? Cersei had been a cruel woman. Wicked and ambitious. He’d always ignored it. He’d always allowed it. Lost in love, he had forgotten to be a knight.

Cersei’s blood had dried on his left hand, cracking and staining in patterns around his fingers and nails. He stared at it. Baffled. Cersei had always said they would leave this world together, and here he was, her blood on his shaking hands. It was just Tyrion and him now. The Lannister boys. The Lannister kinslayers. Another title to add to his never-ending list - perhaps long enough to match the Queen.

That’s what she was now. The Queen. The second those bells tolled Daenerys Targaryen ascended the throne, but Cersei simply refused to see it. It mattered not, he supposed, for Cersei died not minutes later. Jaime rested his head against the pillar, exhausted, as he pondered what to do next. He had been battling with himself for days over what to do about Cersei. About whether to hand her over for her execution eagerly, or simply stand aside. Do something or do nothing. Honour had pushed him to the former. He knew he would have to hand her over. Her corpse. Cersei had demanded Daenerys’ and instead, he would give Daenerys hers. Poetry, if he’d ever bothered to have a mind for it.

Jaime rose slowly from his seat on the floor, his golden hand scraping across the stone as he attempted to gain his balance. A weird silence had fallen over the room, almost oppressive. Jaime did not know whether it was because the city had actually gone quiet, or whether he had simply willed himself to stop listening.

He stumbled to Cersei and heaved his arms under her cold body. Her limbs flopped without a semblance of grace, and her head lulled back as he slowly picked her up from the ground. Jaime willed his feet to move, slowly and begrudgingly. Perhaps it was honour that had compelled him to stay with her body. To sit by her side as she slumbered in death. Perhaps it was love. Perhaps it was fear. Fear that she would reanimate to butcher him also, just like the city.

Jaime rambled down the Keep’s many stairs, struggling to catch his breath as Cersei’s body felt heavier with each step. A few Unsullied guards noticed him, and tread towards him to escort him. Every once in a while, they would silently guide him down a certain corridor. Down a certain set of stairs. He knew where they were taking him. He knew this bloody castle better than them.

The throne room looked worse than it had ever been, worse than even Aerys’ final days. Half its roof was missing, and its intricate windows were shattered and glass strewn across the ash-covered floor. It was all rock and rubble, instead of crowns and lords. 

At the end of the hall, sat a woman in black. Silver-gold hair. She held her face in her hands and as Jaime neared, he could hear her sob softly amongst the dark silence. He slowed, wary of the sight of the distraught Queen. By her side, stood Grey Worm and Davos, both of them covered in ash and blisters. Jaime flinched in guilt at the sight of the two men’s miserable faces.

Daenerys raised her head slowly from her hands, to reveal her red and puffy eyes, her trembling lip. Her eyes grew wider at the sight in his arms, and she slowly moved from the step in front of the throne and towards him. Still, she kept her distance, and her steps were tentative. Small. Slow. Her mouth twitched slightly, almost as if she were to weep again. Her raw eyes examined the dead woman in his arms, unblinking.

“Your… request, your Grace?” Jaime said quietly. A part of him silently begged her not to string her up on the walls.

“Did she know?” Daenerys croaked out. “Did she know she was going to die? It wasn’t instant?”

Jaime nodded.

“Was she afraid?” Daenerys asked again, though her voice cracked and faltered on the last word.

“Yes,” Jaime responded. Anger and fear were often the same emotion, and it was Cersei’s mad refusal to die that all but confirmed that to him.

Daenerys paused. In front of him, she did not look triumphant. Her shoulders in her sharp dress were slumped in defeat, and her hands rested wearily at her sides. 

“Then I don’t care. Burn her. Bury her. Throw her into the sea.” Daenerys told him, her voice rising in bitter anger with every word. “I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.”

With one last spiteful look, Daenerys tore her gaze from Cersei and stormed past him. She was not a few steps away before he heard her sob yet again. His brows creased in confusion as he watched her flee from the room. She grieved, but for who?

When Jaime turned back to the throne, where the two men stood, he realised they were missing a third. They were missing the Bastard of Winterfell. Davos and Grey Worm moved to leave, but Jaime stepped forward to stand in the way of the older man.

“Jon Snow?” He asked softly.

“Please,” Davos whispered with a barely contained sob. “Please tend to your own dead.”

Jaime’s mouth stammered open in shock. Cersei had killed him. Cersei’s butchery had murdered the Queen’s husband. The Lord of Winterfell. Hero of the Long Night. But then, Jaime came to the even more bitter conclusion. Daenerys sat alone on her throne room steps, instead of being with her late husband’s body… because there wasn’t one.

Jaime sighed as the men departed with bitter looks. He stared at the throne for a few moments, almost entranced by the cold metal as he stood alone in the large hall. Was this hunk of iron even worth it? How many have bled for it? Killed for it?  _ Died _ for it? All of this war, all of this misery and pain, for an uncomfortable and gruelling chair.

Would the world have been different if he’d refused to let Ned and Robert have it? If Aerys had stayed as king? If Joffrey had been kind? Or if Tommen had been strong? Jaime glanced down to Cersei and realised it didn’t fucking matter. The what-ifs, the alternatives, the regrets. Nothing else matters but what you do, and what he did, was kill Cersei. His sister. His love. The mother of his long-rotting children. The most powerful woman in Westeros, and what did that hunk of iron get her, in the end? A blade.

A blade is a mercy for such a madman, Jon had told him.

Jaime turned on his heel with his sister in his aching arms and made his way out of the keep and towards the stables. Most of the refugees had sought shelter in the main yard, so hopefully, Jaime would slip by unnoticed. He heaved her onto a horse and tied her down, covering her with his cape, and mounted to head for the outskirts of the city.

When Jaime strolled through the gates leaving the castle, he looked on in horror.

He had seen it from above, from his tower in the sky, far away from the real heat and flame. Here, he saw everything. Every flaking figure and ash drenched body. Every rock and crack and still-burning fire. The streets were almost empty, save the wailing of people trapped in rubble covered houses in the distance. Jaime rode slowly through it all, covering his face with her arm as the stench of flesh and fire became too much to bear. A part of him wished Cersei was alive on his back, just so that she could see and smell what her pride and madness had wrought.

As he neared the city gates, Jaime spotted the familiar figure of his brother, standing amongst the people who had camped there. He held his breath as Tyrion noticed him, and then noticed what lay on the back of his horse.

“Jaime!” Tyrion rushed over warily.

“Brother,” Jaime said tensely atop his horse. Tyrion’s eyes flickered from Jaime to the back of the horse, his hands fidgeting as well.

“I’m glad you’re alright. I’m going to regroup with Queen Daenerys at dawn, I don’t wish to navigate this havoc in the middle of the night. The fires…” Tyrion began. “I never imagined such a sight.”

“Yes, well I’m sure Cersei imagined it,” Jaime retorted. It was more bitter than he intended. Tyrion’s eyes went wide at his reply and he stepped closer so as to whisper.

“Jaime, where is she?” He asked in a hushed voice.

Jaime stared back at Tyrion blankly. “Where do you think?”

Tyrion’s eyes brimmed with tears as his hand reflexively reached out to the covered body at the back. The three Lannister siblings, reunited.

“J-Jaime… by the Gods,” Tyrion stammered. “So not Dragonfire then? The Queen chose another way?”

“ _ The Queen _ didn’t do anything,” Jaime replied quietly, his head lowered slightly in shame.

Tyrion stood frozen, his mouth agape and his eyes wider than before. A few of the soldiers protecting him glanced over to the two brothers, but mostly minded their business. Jaime wasn’t sure of what to make of Tyrion’s shock and grief.

“Tyrion, you listen to me. You didn’t speak to her. She was mad. On par with Aerys, and you know fine well what I did to him.” Jaime said harshly. Tyrion flinched slightly at his tone, but tears still streamed from his eyes and down his beard.

He was arguing enough with himself already over her death, and he did not wish to debate it with his brother, of all people. He had loved her, yes. He had trusted her, yes. But he had killed her, ignoring that. Because that’s what anyone else would have done. It’s what Brienne would have done, he hoped.

“What are you doing with her?” Tyrion asked sheepishly. “Are you taking her home? She deserves that, at least.”

“Home?” Jaime scoffed, though tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he did. “No. I think I’ll burn her. Come with me.”

“No,” Tyrion stated.

“Suit yourself, brother. You’re the one who cared so much for keeping her alive, and now you won’t even spare a thought for her dead.” Jaime snapped back.

Tyrion scoffed. “That’s unfair!”

_ Perhaps _ .

“So much love you claim to have for our family, Tyrion,” Jaime ranted. “Yet here you are, speaking about what she  _ deserves _ .”

“You’re the one who killed her!” Tyrion near-yelled. He took a step closer to the horse, but due to his height, was forced to bend his neck farther back to look Jaime in the eye.

“And what is right?” Jaime said quietly. Tyrion hesitated. “Right doesn’t care for opinions, Tyrion. It doesn’t care for our feelings. Last chance to join me.”

“No,” Tyrion said, firmer this time.

_ Fine _ .

Jaime felt a tear fall as he stormed off, leaving his brother behind at the gates, but the harsh night wind whisked it from his face. He aimed for the Kingswood, the dense forest that surrounded the city. Cersei had all but hacked it to pieces, but still, some taller trees remained. There were enough branches and leaves to build a shitty pyre. Jaime worked at it for what felt like hours, heaving on enough wood to burn a body.

When, finally, the makeshift pyre was adequate, Jaime turned to remove Cersei from the horse. He placed her delicately on the dry wood, before turning to the nearest rock and twig to start the flames. In a matter of moments, the leaves and kindling set alight, and Jaime stumbled back as the fire became more potent and more furious. Cersei’s bloodied corpse was lost amongst the flames in a matter of minutes. Jaime sighed at the sight.  The fire was bright in the dark night, and Jaime sat on the grass and watched as it burned and flickered. Her skin and clothes melted and flaked, and he watched on blankly. The last of Tywin Lannister’s ambition, he supposed, burning away in the wind.

He had been too brash with Tyrion, he thought. He was grieving too, but Tyrion had not just committed an act of kinslaying. He had not just put honour and justice above family. He had never done that, he realised. Their father was a cruel man, but shooting the man on the privy wasn’t  _ justice _ .

Kingslayer, kinslayer, Queenslayer. _I have the whole set now_, he thought as he chuckled morbidly to himself, _Father would be so proud_. Honour never meant anything to him. Only power. Only greed. House Lannister was nothing more than that. They stood for nothing, listened to nothing. Lions, amongst sheep, they had always said. What Cersei had said. Cersei was Tywin’s child, not him. It had never been him. The stupid golden hand he wore on his right was Cersei’s. A pretty ornament to replace what he had lost on his way back to her. It was a symbol, he realised, to signify what really mattered to the Lannisters. Gold and power.

Slowly, Jaime reached out with his left hand to pull at his golden one. He hesitated for a second, before yanking the piece off his arm and letting it fall between his legs and onto the cold ground. He stared at it for a second, now missing a limb, before realising what he needed to do.

The Jaime Lannister of yesterday must die.

Jaime stood slowly from the grass and picked up the hand. He grunted as he angrily threw it into the burning wood. It probably wouldn’t melt, he realised, but he did not care. He watched as it lay amongst Cersei’s burning body and the roaring flames, breathing deeply as he let the smell of sickly smoke surround him.

He stayed, and waited, until the pyre was nothing more than embers against the light of the rising sun. And when the first flickers of morning sunlight reached Jaime’s tired skin, he knew what he had done must have been right. He knew that when that sharp blade had lodged in his sister’s chest, that Jaime Lannister, the Knight, not the lion, had been reborn in grief and justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hi yes I'm aware there's been a lot of flip-flopping between Jaime and others POV wise, don't worry he having a break after this lol)
> 
> It was definitely a struggle trying to balance Jaime's grief and bitterness. I think this is probably one of his most important chapters, development-wise. Especially speaking with Tyrion, who had defended her so fiercely - I knew Jaime was not the type to wallow in front of other people, hence snappy Jaime sprung out a bit.
> 
> Burning Cersei, to him, is no way a funeral for her. I'd say it's more cathartic for him, finally seeing her disappear from this world for good. I did um and ah over what I thought Daenerys would do with an already-killed Cersei, and then I realised. Nothing was nothing. Dead was dead. Daenerys looked on in horror as men, women and children were crucified in Slaver's Bay, that I don't believe she would take a woman, no matter how much she despised her, and string her up on the walls as Jaime feared. Daenerys, in her fresh grief, simply didn't care, as long as she was dead. Is she mad she didn't get to kill her? I'll be exploring this a bit more in chapters to come.
> 
> Don't worry, it's not going to be 14 chapters of grieving, for the most part. Stay tuned! (In other news, I've recently learned how to INDENT THINGS wow I'm so proud of me lol)


	64. Daenerys XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?"

Daenerys slowly pushed open the door to the Queen’s chambers, two of her faithful Unsullied standing either side of the wood. She had not ventured this far into the Keep yet, had not bothered to take in her surroundings. But when she entered the large room, she saw everything.

She felt too aware of everything. The tap of her boots against the stone was too loud. Her breath was too deep. The light of the candles was too harsh, too bright. No doubt this had once been Cersei’s room, but you would have never known, for it was pristine. There were no flowers in the vases, no wrinkles on the bed and a small sprinkling of dust lay on the tables and chests. She wondered if anyone had been in this room for weeks. For Months, even.

As Daenerys stepped further into the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror above the vanity. But, she did not look at her swollen face, nor her red and tired eyes. Instead, she saw her dress. Targaryen black and red. Sharp and cold. Fire and blood. She looked like a conqueror, but she did not want to be. Perhaps she would have ripped it off, as she had done after her other battles at Winterfell, but Dany lacked the energy. Perhaps it looked appropriate, she wondered. Instead of the armour of a conqueror, she was dressed as a widow.

Dany closed her eyes, in part exhaustion and grief. She had no tears left in her, but she longed to give them. She wanted him to know, if he was able to see, that she missed him. She grieved for him. She wanted him to come home to her.

She sat on the end of the poster bed, the off-white sheets bouncing off a thin layer of dust as she did. Daenerys swept her hands across the bed, her fingers feeling every crinkle and ridge caused by her sitting. Her fingers traced the flowery patterns and counted them. Twenty-three, on her side of the bed at least. But it was all her bed. Tonight, Jon would not sleep on the other side of it. He would not hold her as she wept over the destruction outside.

When Daenerys looked up slightly, she saw that something had been placed on top of one of the higher chests, reflecting the torchlight onto the ceiling. Daenerys rose from the bed to peer over the top of the drawers, her nose in line with the surface. It was a sword. Jon’s sword. Someone had already placed it in the room. She reached out, lifting her arms over her shoulders to grasp at it, gently removing it from its makeshift pedestal and placing it on the bed behind. It was lighter than she had imagined, but Daenerys could not tear her eyes away from its blackened hilt.

He was gone. All she had left of him was a sword.

With a furious scream, Daenerys grabbed a vase from the side table and threw it across the room. She watched it shatter into a million pieces on the stone wall, and decided that it felt good. She reached for a pillow, throwing that as well. Then another vase. Then an ornament. Then she pushed over a table.

They all landed with crashes and thunder, and with every sound that pierced her ears, Daenerys’ anger grew in place of her grief. She should have killed Cersei. Jaime Lannister beat her to it. There was nothing she could do with her dead body. The thought enraged her more. She grabbed a torchlight from the wall but halted with a sob as she went to throw it onto the bed.

There had been too much fire today.

She gently placed the torchlight back into its holster with shaking hands, the fire flickering blurrily through her wet eyes. Dany stumbled back to the bed to hold Jon’s sword once more, angry at herself that she almost condemned the hilt of the blade to fire once again.

She wished someone was here with her. Anyone. She longed for Jon, but as she sat in despair she also longed for her mother. For Missandei. For Jorah. What would she trade, for all of them to return to her? Her dragons. Her glory, her titles. Her crown. Her life, she reckoned. But it was not just her life, anymore, was it? Jon Snow’s child grew inside her. If the baby lived, then she wouldn’t just have a sword. She would have Jon’s sweet eyes and kind smile. 

Would the Gods be so cruel as to steal them from her as well? Would Rhaego not suffice?

Daenerys wept as she prayed, something she had never bothered to do, for she believed in few but herself. She prayed that Jon would return to her, even if that had to be through their child. She wanted something,  _ anything _ , that Cersei couldn’t take from her. Something else, that wasn’t ash.

She stayed there, on the bed, for hours, sitting in silence as she prayed and her mind wandered. A knock on the door interrupted her incoherent thoughts, and an exhausted Daenerys welcomed the company.

“Come in,” Daenerys called out, as firmly as she could.

The door budged open slowly, revealing the old frame of Ser Davos in the doorway. He had cleaned himself up, but his face was still etched in sadness. His eyes narrowed in concern as he saw the state of the trashed bedroom, but made no comment on it.

“Your Grace, I saw your light. I can’t sleep either. May I join you?” Davos said softly.

She offered him a sad smile. Daenerys did not wish to sleep. She did not know what nightmares she would have to endure. Davos sat gently by her side on the bed, and for a moment, she felt like a child, about to be scolded by her father.

But instead of scolding, Davos reached his arm around her to pull her into a comforting hug. By instinct, she rested her messily-braided head on his shoulder, grateful for the comfort, no matter how insubordinate some would call it.

She didn’t want to be a Queen right now.

“How’s Arya?” Daenerys asked quietly, the thought of the young girl springing to mind.

“Badly beaten. Maester said she’ll be fine in the long run, but they have her under for now. She needs to rest.” Davos replied.

She didn’t know yet.

“When she wakes, can you tell me? I don’t want her to find out from someone she doesn’t know,” She said softly, her head still on the older man’s shoulder.

“Of course, your Grace,” Davos murmured.

Together, they sat in silence for a while, the two seeking comfort from one another as they pondered their losses. She wasn’t even sure how many of her own men were gone, but she knew it was a lot. She knew it was too many. So many of them were in the tents, and too many of them were covered in sheets, neatly arranged in lines by the forges.

“Did Jon ever tell you about his scars?” Davos blurted out suddenly.

“He told me enough,” Daenerys replied wearily. “I saw them after the wight hunt. They were so jagged and deep… They were hard to see. But, he explained as we travelled north that the traitors who had done it were long dead.”

“And no more than that?” Davos said.

“Is there more to it? He told me of the Red Woman if that’s what you mean. I never really pushed it, he said it wasn’t important.” Daenerys asked, confused.

Davos sighed and rubbed his free hand on his trouser leg. Daenerys glanced up at him for a second and felt he looked older than he had ever done in the short time she had known him.

“Of course, he didn’t tell you… Of course, he thought it wasn’t important. For a man so bloody heroic he hated taking any credit for it.” Davos said sadly. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s told lies and done his fair share of treacheries, but that wasn’t him. I’m sure you know that.”

“I do,” Daenerys said, though a sob threatened to tear from her throat as she did.

“I assume you know a bit of his time with the wildings?” Davos asked.

“A bit,” Daenerys said quietly. She knew that he had gone undercover so as to protect his men at Castle Black. She knew he had taken a wildling woman as his lover. She knew she had died.

“Stannis sent me back to Castle Black to request Jon’s help, once we saw that attacking Winterfell was near hopeless. Partly it was because he didn’t want me there for Shireen… anyway that’s not the point,” Davos began, his eyes lost in memory. “When I got there, thousands of wildlings were in the castle. Thousands. He’d saved them all from the army of the dead, no matter how much his men despised it. Because they were people. He knew, no matter how much other people hated them, they didn’t deserve such horrible fates.”

Daenerys rose from Davos’ shoulder. “This is Hardhome, right? Tormund mentioned it once or twice. What does this have to do with his scars?”

“Saving those people… was what got Jon killed.” Davos said bluntly. “When I said he took a knife in the heart for his people... I didn’t mean the North.”

Daenerys looked at him, her eyes wide. Jon had never elaborated on this part. What horrible men would do such a thing?

“They killed him, for saving people?” Daenerys asked, quietly and incredulously. 

“Yes. Because they were wildlings. Because those bastards thought they deserved it, and therefore Jon deserved it.” Davos said sharply.

Daenerys stared back at the sword behind her on the bed, her eyes lost in the light of the blade. Jon was a good man. She’d always known that. But had he known that? She had so many questions to ask him, so much she longed to know that he never truly told her. He was always so simple with his answers, never divulging too much of his own opinions on his history. On the ship, he had told her he wasn’t one for the past - that the past was done and gone and we should move on from it. Oh, but she desperately wished to know more.

“Daenerys, what I’m trying to say is… Jon didn’t deserve to bleed out on the cold ground of Castle Black. And he neither did he deserve it now.  _ The second _ he saw that rider, he went. He wanted to save people because that’s what he’s always done.”

“No,” Daenerys choked out. “He didn’t deserve it.”

Tears fell from her eyes again and Davos pulled her closer.

“I know it’s horrible to hear. You don’t deserve to hear it. But… I take some comfort knowing that what he went out doing was the right thing,” Davos whispered. “When I couldn’t sleep earlier, I spoke with Grey Worm. He said that the part of the city that burned less than the rest, near the pit, was because the wildfire there never set off. Jon saved that district, perhaps not completely from the spreading fire, but certainly from the explosions.”

Daenerys wept harder as she listened. Why must he be a hero? Why must he leave her here, all alone?

“Jon Snow killed the Night King, for fuck’s sake. He defended this realm time and time again, and he strived to defend it one last time,” Davos continued, his voice was confident, almost proud, though marked with grief. “Jon Snow… Aegon Targaryen… whatever you want to call him, was, without ever intending to be, a far greater Protector of the Realm than any of the wicked fools that have come before us.”

Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name. That’s what Jon should have been. He’d cast away his crown for his lady love and sworn himself to the defence of the realm. The shield to guard the realms of men, that’s what he’d said. Daenerys sobbed as she realised Davos could not possibly be more right. Jon Snow was a King but without a crown.

Davos held her close, shushing her as she cried harder.

“I don’t know how to do it, Davos.” Daenerys sobbed. “I don’t know what to do without him.”

“You’ll work it out, child. That’s what you’ve spent your life doing. Soon, you’ll have his son or daughter to look out for.” Davos said softly.

“How did you know?” Dany asked hurriedly, her eyes doused in panic. Was her secret out?

“Don’t worry, it’s just me. He told me at Harrenhal.” Davos whispered. “I suppose… he wanted someone to look out for you, too, as you looked out for everyone else.”

Daenerys smiled sadly at him again, barely able to see him through her wet and blurry eyes. That’s what she had to do now, wasn’t it? Protect the realm. Serve the realm. Love her people. Queenship and Lordship, they weren’t what mattered. It was the other titles. It was protector, and Mhysa, and the Breaker of Chains. Without those, she was just more of the same.

She didn’t want to be more of the same.

In the mirror in front of her, Daenerys saw the reflection of the morning light slowly appearing on the horizon. It almost looked like a window, she pondered, the sun rising in the wrong direction. She sighed as the undeniable call of sleep clawed at her exhausted body. She didn’t remember Davos helping her to bed, nor him placing Jon’s sword on the table at the end of the covers. All she could remember and dream about was Jon, the King, the saviour, and the child he would never get to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this chapter my love letter to Jon Snow. The king, who never got to wear his crown.
> 
> "Protect the realm. Serve the realm. Love her people. Queenship and Lordship, they weren’t what mattered. It was the other titles. It was protector, and Mhysa, and the Breaker of Chains. Without those, she was just more of the same."  
*insert that picture of will smith enthusiastically pointing out his wife* THIS IS IT! THIS IS THE POINT OF DAENERYS TARGARYEN! It is not the titles she intends to win that will define her reign, but the ones she has already earned!
> 
> a hi-5 from me for whoever can point out across this and the last couple of chapters my interpretation of the 'sun rises in the west' prophecy ;)


	65. Sansa VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A man must know how to look before he can hope to see."

Winterfell was a lonely place, Sansa realised. It was cold and dark, but light could be found in it if you knew where to look. The past few weeks, Sansa had busied herself with maintaining the castle, overseeing the repairs. There was a lot to do, even still.

Sansa sat at the table in the Great Hall, pushing around her dinner as the sun slowly set through the window. Bran sat by her side, not touching his food either. Ghost had been whining for days, and the sound disconcerted both of them. They had received their raven, telling them the attack on the city was to begin the next day but had heard nothing else.

Sansa missed Jon and Arya. Arya hadn’t even said goodbye to her, just disappearing in the dead of night to seek out her revenge. They were all back together again, then half of them had left. Sansa found it rather sad and lonely.

The people were wary of her, warier than they had been before. They feared Daenerys and her dragons, as did Sansa. They had all knelt before her, as she emerged from those raging flames, equal parts awe and fear. The longer Sansa pondered those few days, the more she hated herself.

No more, was there men and women declaring Northern independence. With each passing day, she heard more people call Jon ‘Lord’ rather than ‘King’. They knew a king now, and her name wasn’t Stark. It left a bitter taste in her mouth. The North had stopped remembering, it seemed. Jon Snow and Sansa Stark - the second Tohrren's of their age. Kneelers.

An issue she would bring up with Daenerys, once she had wrangled her crown.

Her food was getting cold, her will to eat it this evening non-existent for some reason. She stood with a huff, picking up the plate and moving to take it back to the kitchens.

“Sansa,” Bran called out as she walked across the room.

“Yes, brother?” She replied, half-turning.

“He’s gone,” Bran said bluntly.

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him, a million questions running through her head.

“Who is?” She asked quickly.

“Jon,” He said.

Sansa dropped her plate, not even watching as it shattered and spilt all over the floor. The gravy spilt over her grey dress, but she did not care. Jon was gone?

“W-What? Bran, I don’t understand… Who? How?!” Sansa yelled sharply. Behind her, a couple of servants passing through cried as they heard it too.

“Green. It came forth as fire as the glass cracked and burned.” Bran whispered.

Sansa launched herself back towards the table and smacked her hand off the wood. “Bran, tell me!”

“There was a deal. An heir for a barren queen. A future for a doomed house. But what do you do when there is no heir and the queen is not barren?” He rambled/

Sansa didn’t understand. What did that even mean? She just wanted to know whose head to demand. She wanted to know how, she wanted to know  _ why _ .

“Suns rise and set all the time, often in the wrong directions. Blood dries on painted rivers and hulking mountains collapse to the ground. Weeping wives and flaming cities are the landscape of the realm. To reforge things anew, you first must melt it down,” Bran continued, though his stare was blank as his words made no sense to Sansa’s ears.

“Bran! Speak plainly!” Sansa yelled, tears falling down her cheeks.

“Send a raven. Tell the dragon. Check the letters, for the ink is blood.” Bran declared.

Sansa creased her brows in confusion. What was it he was trying to say?

Bran grabbed her hand, though with a bit of effort. “There is no justice in this world, not unless we make it.”

Her back straightened as Petyr’s words cut through her. But Bran wasn’t referring to Littlefinger, was he? Justice was what he spoke of. Justice due to treachery. Justice for Jon.

Sansa bolted from the room and ran through the corridors and up the steps leading to the Maester’s room, where the ravens were kept. Her dirty grey dress breezed with every step, and her tears fell further back as her speed increased. As she entered the room, she snatched the quill from Maester Wolken’s ageing hands and frantically began her letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY short update, I know, but two more chapters incoming very soon.


	66. Arya XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whatever you may believe of me, Lady Stark, I promise you this - I never bet against my family."

Arya woke lazily from the bed, her eyes blinking again and again just to be able to see. She saw the faint outline of a man sitting on a chair by her bed. As she groaned, the pain in her chest and legs growing louder as she regained consciousness, the man sprinted from the chair to sit by her side.

“Arya? Arya? Can you hear me?” He whispered.

She did, but she needed a few bloody seconds.

The room around her was dark, the curtains were drawn on the far side of the room, but betraying that it was light outside. Arya couldn’t hear very much. There didn’t seem to be a lot of footfall nearby, nor could she hear much of the city below. She turned her head slowly to look at the man closer.

“Arya?” Gendry asked again.

She cracked a small smile at him, his shoulders losing their tension as she did. He smiled back, but it did not quite reach his eyes. His arm was in a sling, and he knelt uncomfortably by her bed, his lips pressing into a fine line when he shuffled slightly.

“Hello,” She said softly. Her voice was still hoarse and raw from being strangled.

Gendry beamed, his hand holding hers tightly as she slowly came to. Both of his hands were rough and calloused, but Arya’s eyes narrowed when she caught sight of the small spread of burned skin around his wrists, neatly covered by the sleeve of his shirt.

“What happened to your arm?” Arya asked quietly.

Gendry’s brows raise, his eyes flickering around the room as if looking for the simplest answer.

“Uh, I… burned it,” Gendry replied anxiously. Wincing, he pulled his sleeve slightly to reveal more of the blistered and raw skin peeking out through tight bandages. Arya reached out to touch it but stopped as she strayed near. It would hurt if she did.

“How?” Arya asked. She was confused. How could he have burned himself, in the midst of a battle? “What happened?”

Gendry avoided her eyes, but his hand squeezed hers tighter than before. He chewed on his lip as silence ruled the room, filling Arya with uneasy dread. She pulled on his hand as he refused to answer, begging for an answer.

“Arya… something terrible has happened,” Gendry whispered. “And I just want you to know now, how sorry I am.”

“Gendry,  _ what happened _ ?” His words did nothing to put her at ease.

He stood, slowly walking, half-limping, to the pulled curtains on the far side of the room. He turned back to her, his eyes sad and worried, but shakingly pulling them open so she could see.

“Wildfire,” Gendry rasped. “Cersei set it off. Queen Daenerys has had some counting done, people recording their missing and their dead. A quarter of the Northern lords who came with us, dead. The Northern army reduced to a third of its size. The Queen’s troops… decimated. And the people, the smallfolk… we think the number is just over four-hundred-thousand.”

With every word, Arya wished to be sick.

“I’ll fucking kill her. I should have fucking killed her!” Arya said loudly, but Gendry walked back and graced his hands over her angry frame again as she propped herself further up on the bed.

“Cersei’s dead. Ser Jaime killed her.” Gendry interrupted. “Justice came for her.”

Arya’s anger lessened at that, but it did not make it hurt any less. If only she hadn’t been injured so badly, she could have climbed those steps and killed her before she could do anything. The Hound had said someone would have killed her anyway. She supposed he was right, but the thought of him, bleeding out on the stone stairs, pained her.

“Good, she deserved it. I wish it had been me.” Arya spat out bitterly. “I wish Daenerys had burned her alive, or Jon had run her through with his sword.”

Gendry fell silent and his hands stopped. He looked up through his eyelashes, frozen with fear. Arya gazed bitterly at the window to the city and did not notice his hesitation.

“Speaking of, where is Jon? I’m sure he’s with Daenerys, but I’d like you to fetch him.” Arya continued wistfully. “He’s probably mad I disobeyed him by coming south. He’ll forgive me, though. He always does.”

Gendry swallowed - hard - and moved closer so that he could speak quietly.

“Arya… Jon’s not here.” He said.

“What do you mean? He’s gone back to Winterfell already?” She replied quickly. She wanted to see him.

“No, Arya… Jon… was  _ in that four-hundred-thousand _ .” Gendry whispered.

Arya stared at him, her eyes unblinking.

“What?” She rasped.

“Arya, I’m so sorry-” Gendry said quickly.

She swallowed. Then she looked away. His eyes were brimmed with tears already, just as hers were beginning to do. She felt like a hole had been punched into her heart, the abyss which remained feeling nothing but the cold. Jon was dead.

_ No, he can’t be _ , Arya thought. She had so much left to tell him. She had so much time left to spend with him. Time that had been stolen from her. Arya scrambled to pull the covers off her injured body, ignoring the pain as she contorted and moved. Gendry tried to stop her, but she slapped him away as he moved to reach out.

“Get off of me!” Arya yelled in the middle of falling tears.

“Arya, you need to rest!” Gendry replied.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She yelled back, heaving herself up and off the bed. Her legs buckled as she did, and the ever-loyal Gendry caught her. She pushed him away, desperate to stand on her own two feet.

She stumbled towards the door, stomping through the pain of the bruises and stitches littered all over her body. Ser Davos stood at the other end of the corridor as she burst open the door, his face equally as grief-stricken and injured as Gendry’s.

“Davos! Davos, tell me he’s lying!” Arya shouted.

Davos shushed her, guiding her to return to the room and to the bed. She didn’t want to rest. She didn’t want to sit. Or be silent. She wanted to scream, and stab, and  _ destroy _ .

Arya’s tears flowed freely, her tired hands clutching and Davos as he led her back into the room. Gendry helped, his touch gentle. Arya didn’t want gentle. She wanted a knife. But who to drive it into? Cersei was dead.

There was no one left for her to kill.

Arya sat, exhausted, back down on the bed. Her arms fell limp to her sides in equal parts pain and sadness, her grief stabbing her like the pointy end of cold steel. Gendry tried to soothe her, but it was no use. Arya cried, and cried. More than she had done so in the last several years. Arya cried for her third dead brother.

“Arya?” Davos asked tentatively. “There’s a letter for you.”

She spotted it, resting gently in the older man’s grasp. On it, bore the seal of House Stark, the seal of Winterfell. It was a letter from home. She took it, slowly letting it fall into her half-bandaged hands.

“I’m going to get the Queen, if that’s alright. I’m sure she’d like to see you.” Davos whispered, but Arya wasn’t even listening and did not watch as he fled the room.

Her eyes stayed glued to the parchment, unopened in her palms. She held it, assessing its weight. How it smelled. What paper it was. She focused on it all, anything and everything - everything but Jon. She pulled it open.

* * *

> _ To our dearest sister, Arya, _
> 
> _ We know what has occurred. Bran saw it as soon as it happened. He implored me to warn you that there is seemingly more to it than the last stand of a madwoman, and to declare his warning word for word, as simple as it may be: _
> 
> _ Seek out the end. The ink is written in blood. _
> 
> _ I do not know its meaning, aside from some other words of the desire to save two doomed families. Bran told me to pass this onto the Queen, but I do not imagine she is in a fit enough state to investigate such delicate matters. I may not be fond of the woman, but I know how much she loved Jon. I beg you to heed his advice, sister, to uncover what Bran cannot communicate. There is no justice in this world, not unless we make it. _
> 
> _ Your sister, _
> 
> _ Sansa _

* * *

“Seek out the end,” Gendry whispered, hovering over her shoulder to read the letter as well. “What does that even mean?”

Arya reread it. Once. Twice. Then again. She was confused. She was heartbroken. Afraid.

The end. The end. The end. What end? Whose end?

“Cersei,” Arya blurted out. “Gendry, where did she die?”

“Maegor’s Holdfast, I think.” He replied.

“I want to see it,” Arya declared.

She bolted from the bed, though not without some difficulty, with Gendry trailing behind her as she attempted to navigate the lonely keep. Few men dotted the halls, and those that did looked tired and injured. They looked sad.

Arya arrived back on the steps where Sandor had perished and halted as she saw it had not yet been cleaned. The bloodstains still lingered on the stone, and the rubble was littered unnaturally around the stairwell - a testament to their battle.

She sucked in a deep breath and hurried past it, aiming for the heavy door further up and ahead. They were blown wide open, revealing the trashed room inside. She stumbled inside, her eyes drinking in the carnage that had unfolded. Broken mirrors. Broken shutters. Shattered vases and wine bottles and ripped painting canvases. In the centre, a dried pool of blood graced the Neck and the Trident, turning the painted blue waters a mud-red.

Arya stopped to stand in front of it, satisfied at the sight of Cersei Lannister’s blood on the floor. She breathed it in, the metallic scent obvious throughout the air. She stared at it as Gendry wandered the room absently. She wondered whether Cersei screamed.

She hoped she did.

Arya tore her gaze from the floor, to peer around the room, intent on heeding her brother’s advice. She would rip apart whoever had their dirty hands in her favourite brother’s death. She wanted dead, whoever it was who caused her this horrible pain in her chest.

Wiping the fresh tears from her eyes, Arya staggered away from the map and towards the rooms surrounding it. A small limp was forming in her left leg, hindering her walk with some pain. She grazed her fingers across the stone walls and wooden tables, relishing in the destruction caused by the battle, and by Cersei. Arya thought the wretched woman deserved to go mad.

Finally, Arya reached a desk. It was ornate, and perhaps the most intact of all the furniture, with the chair next to it a soft cushioned velvet adorned with gold and gems. It was a seat for a Queen. Arya angrily shoved the chair aside, discarding it a metre or two away from the table, and moved her hands to lean over the desk with her body.

The desk was strewn with letters - some pinned together in some method of organisation, some carelessly discarded. Arya saw many names. She saw desperate unsent letters to Jaime Lannister and furious responses to ‘treacherous’ lords. Every time Arya moved a piece of paper, she saw more underneath - a mountain of ink and parchment.

A couple from Harry Strickland, reporting their movements towards Winterfell. Arya read them eagerly but discarded them with disgust when they betrayed nothing useful. The next letter was an unsent one, no seal of any kind on it and the ink unfinished mid-word. In it, demands for surrender aimed at Queen Daenerys. And an explicit description of how she would be murdered. Unsurprisingly, Cersei wanted to test wildfire on the Unburnt. Arya threw that letter down too.

The next letter had a seal. A broken one. Arya drank in the words on the page, and the words on the letters pinned to it. All of them were in the same hand, from the same writer. With every sentence, every betrayal, and finally with the name scrawled at the end of each parchment, Arya’s fury grew and a yell ripped from her damaged throat. She kicked over the ornate chair next to her, groaning as the force of the kick vibrated up her leg and pained her. Gendry ran over, the panic clear as day in his eyes.

“Arya, what’s wrong? What did you find?!” He asked quickly.

“Read it!” She yelled, holding out the last sheet of paper in front of his face. He stepped back, his eyes squinting and hesitating as he struggled to read it with unpracticed eyes. In that moment, Arya forgot he had only just started learning. His eyes went wide as he slowly came to the end of the parchment.

“We have to tell the Queen,” Gendry said.

“I’ll kill him!” Arya responded, brushing past Gendry and storming away from the cursed room. “I’ll kill him!”

Gendry followed behind the thunder of her steps, as the two descended down the steps of the lonely Red Keep to rip down a traitor’s veil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned for Arya to be awake before this, but then I realised that made no sense injury-wise - plus the DRAMA, so...
> 
> Here she is. Poor Arya.
> 
> I actually thought it was very important that she didn't kill Cersei, but more on that in another chapter. It would appear there is a traitor in our midst...


	67. Daenerys XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It seems to me that a queen who trusts no one is as foolish as a queen who trusts everyone?"

Daenerys walked slowly and gracefully through the masses of people gathered in the lower yard. Again, she dressed in black but left off her brutal dragon chain so that she walked in just her fabric. She had spent ages that morning, torn over what to do with her hair. Was she to add another braid? Could she call this victory? Daenerys simply left her hair down, save for two strands pinned back so they did not cover her face.

Every few metres, she would stop and speak with the people gathered, both standing and on the floor. She would listen, patiently, as they mourn their dead, or spoke of their fears. They would tell her they needed food, or medicine, or comfort. She gave all three. Protector of the Realm, she had decided she must be first. Just as Jon would have done.

By her side, Grey Worm walked with her, loyal and vigilant as always. Some had expressed anger towards her, furious that the war had stolen their loved ones. Every time, Dany would command Grey Worm to stay back, and she would stand there and take it. Sometimes she would weep, for she knew they were not always wrong.

She had brought conquest to their shores, yes, but she could not be blamed for the suffering that had come before.

A woman with deep brown hair and blue eyes reached out and grasped at Dany’s hand as she walked by, pulling at her shoulder as she came to a halt. The woman’s eyes were desperate and filled with tears not yet spent, and her hands were rough, like that of a labourer.

“Your Grace, is that you?” The woman asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Daenerys replied kindly, though her voice was tired and her mind exhausted. “What do you need?”

The woman glanced behind her, where a small rabble of children lay, small and weak amongst the brutal surroundings. The woman’s eyes were filled with love for them, but not one of them looked like her.

“These children, your Grace, they have no place to go,” She said quickly, still holding Daenerys’ hand. “They all lived in my street, but I’ve spent all night looking for their parents, and I can’t find them!”

Daenerys shushed her as the woman’s tone became more erratic. She walked behind her, towards the children, so that she could see their faces. They all looked like they hadn’t eaten in days. Dany nodded to Grey Worm, who passed her command over to another guard nearby. She would get them food, immediately.

A couple of the children were wide-eyed at the sight of her, no doubt astonished by her uncommon silver hair. She offered them a smile, even if it was a sad one.

“You’re pretty, m’lady,” One girl with wild blonde hair whispered.

“Alma, that’s the Queen! She’s not a lady!” A boy said, slapping the amazed girl on the arm. She muttered her apologies, but Daenerys did not mind. It was rare she was ever called a lady.

“Thank you, Alma. You’re very pretty too.” Daenerys replied. She flashed a smile at the correcting boy, who blushed as she did. Children. They were too sweet to live in a world such as this. Dany turned back to the desperate woman and took her hands.

“I will find a place for them to stay, possibly within my staff, if they are willing. If not, I can arrange for you and the children to be taken out of the city and to another, if you’d like.” Daenerys said kindly.

“Oh, your Grace, I’m that would be great! Thank you!” The older woman said. She barely looked older than herself. “What do you say, children?”

The children murmured their agreement excitedly, and the woman thanked her endlessly. Her name was Una. Daenerys would make sure she remembered that.

“Cersei Lannister’s dead, right?” Una asked. “I hate her. I wish I could have killed her myself, ripped her limb for damn limb. Thank you for doing it for us.”

“I didn’t-” Daenerys interrupted, but the woman had already turned to walk away. They did not know that it was a Lannister knife that had ended the Mad Queen’s reign.

Daenerys moved on, turning back to the masses of people around. She looked up sadly as ash continued to rain down from the sky, the winds of winter swirling and displacing the embers throughout the night. The sky was grey, the sunlight of the day before blocked by ashen clouds. The sight did nothing for Daenerys’ miserable and weary mood.

“You are tired, my Queen,” Grey Worm said behind her in Valyrian.

Daenerys turned her head slightly as they walked. He was right. She had slept, what, three hours, before rising again to face the day? It wasn’t enough.

“Yes, well, there’s no rest for the wicked,” She joked unenthusiastically.

“You are not wicked,” Grey Worm replied bluntly.

In his eyes, she was not. In others? That was another story. Find a man who had been scorned by her actions, a family member burned in battle or a home lost to the dead, and ask them if she was wicked. Sometimes, she wanted to be wicked. She wanted to destroy and burn and kill, but every time she knew she must hold back. Vengeance, no matter how much she longed for it, could not be fulfilled with those you seek to act out against already dead.

“My Queen, let’s head inside. You should eat.” Grey Worm insisted. She suspected he knew about the baby. She didn’t mind. And he was right, she was hungry. When was the last time she ate?

Grey Worm looked tired - his eyes haggard and bloodshot as he stayed at her side as they walked towards the huge steps leading to the keep. Through gaps in the crowd, Daenerys saw a smaller figure approach, encircled by more of her faithful unsullied.

“Your Grace? It’s good to see you,” Tyrion greeted softly. His hands were collapsed behind his back, and his eyes stayed glued to hers, ignoring his surroundings. “I’m very sor-”

“Lord Tyrion, please don’t,” Daenerys interrupted. They still stood at the base of the steps, the eyes of the men and women around them transfixed on their conversation. “Outside the walls, I am a Queen, not a widow. Your pity will only bring me more tears.”

Tyrion smiled sadly but nodded.

“You seem to have a lot of things in order, your Grace. Is there anything you wish me to do in your place?” Tyrion asked.

“No, thank you,” She responded.

“Are you sure? Surely you need not hold the hands of every dying peasant? They will get what they need in due time. You need not be their mother.” Tyrion half-joked.

Daenerys turned as she went to climb the first step. “Yes, I will. That is what I am here for.”

“You are here to rule them,” Tyrion interrupted.

“I am here to  _ protect them _ ,” Daenerys replied firmly.

Beside her, Grey Worm glared at the unsympathetic dwarf. He, of all people, knew of Daenerys as a mother. As Mhysa. She may not be that to the people of Westeros, not yet anyway, but she could act like one. Tyrion nodded submissively as she glared back harshly.  As she ascended the steps, Davos greeted them at the top, his fingers fidgeting with impatience.

“Arya’s awake, your Grace,” Davos said quickly. “She already knows.”

Daenerys sighed as she walked past him. She wanted to speak with Arya herself, to share in their grief. Perhaps it was more for her, than for Arya, though. To be able to sit there and know each other’s pain.

“Where is she now? I’d like to speak with her as soon as possible.” Daenerys asked softly.

“With Lord Baratheon. One of your men told me that they headed to Maegor’s Holdfast. Something about looking at where Cersei died, and letters.” Davos replied.

“That’s a bit morbid,” Grey Worm butted in.

“Perhaps, but understandable. Have a man greet them when they are done, and invite her to the gardens.” Daenerys commanded.

They walked into the Keep, the towering doors ahead creaking as they opened for them. Daenerys headed straight for the gardens, discontent to spend her midday amongst the cold and dirty stone of the castle proper. Let her see the trees, she believed, even if their leaves had been burned and their bark was blackened.

Tyrion grew increasingly more uncomfortable behind her, his eyes fretting between her and the other men as they walked.

“Lord Tyrion, is there a problem?” Davos asked, beating her to it.

“Oh, no, there isn’t,” Tyrion said. He was such an effective liar, Daenerys had come to realise. “Just concern for the young Lady Stark.”

“I’m sure she will be fine. Gendry is with her.” Davos replied.

Daenerys glanced behind her to spot Davos’ hateful glare. Jon had told her the tale - that her own Hand had been responsible for Matthos Seaworth’s death at the Blackwater. She did not blame him, for she too would hate the man who stole her child. She hated Mirri Maz Duur for stealing Rhaego.

“Perhaps I should head upstairs, to greet them and bring them to you,” Tyrion smiled. “And offer my condolences.”

“Tyrion, I have already sent a man,” Daenerys said, not looking at him as she walked. “And I imagine it would not help to be met by a Lannister. We have no idea what state she is in.”

“I’m sure she is reasonable, I shall depart immediately,” Tyrion blurted out.

Daenerys turned quickly. “Tyrion, stop.”

Her Hand had already turned his back, his exit all but inevitable. She stepped closer to him.

“I understand you may feel guilty, seeing as your sister was the butcher who did this to us, but I gave you an order.” Daenerys declared. How easy it was to wear the queenly mask, she realised. A Queen’s voice did not break or falter. A Queen did not grieve.

“You are my Hand, and you have been by my side for no less than ten minutes, despite being absent for a number of days. Stay, my Lord.” She continued, her tone heightened by an uneasy sense of suspicion as he avoided her gaze.

They continue their walk towards the doors leading to the gardens, the entrance mere metres away. Tyrion moved to instead walk past the doors, prompting Daenerys to open her mouth in annoyance.

Instead of a quick flight, however, Tyrion was shoved by a furious Arya Stark. He crashed to the floor with a yell, the chorus of his voice joined by the angry shouting of the young girl above him. 

“Coward! Traitor! I’ll kill you!” Arya screamed. The only thing holding her back from punching him was Gendry and the very clearly ripped stitches in her side.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Daenerys yelled above the shouting.

Everyone stopped. Tyrion scrambled farther back on the floor, flabbergasted to have been pushed over.

Gendry handed a stack of papers to Davos, his other hand keeping Arya back from the dwarf. Davos grasped at them, his older shaky hands adjusting the distance from his eyes so that he could read them. Daenerys looked frantically between the three: Tyrion, Davos and Arya, trying to make sense of what could possibly be happening.

“By the…” Davos rasped. He walked slowly to Daenerys and placed the parchment in her hands. She did not look down at them immediately, instead searching Davos’ pained gaze for answers.

She looked down, and read. A myriad of phrases. Words on paper. She read them, frantically, helplessly, and grew more shocked with every line of ink.

Every letter began with _dear sister_.

* * *

> _ … I do not wish you to die, sister… _
> 
> _ … As we discussed at the summit, your child is the solution to Daenerys’ problem… _
> 
> _ … I have committed many vile deeds against our House, and I will repay those debts. House Lannister will win this war, even if it does not seem like it does… _
> 
> _ … I have failed our family, your children, once before, I will not do so again… _
> 
> _ … I cannot control Daenerys easily anymore - if at all… _
> 
> _ … An heir for a barren queen. That was the deal… _
> 
> _ … Some discord will make her more pliable. The Golden Company will prove useful in this regard. I have put them in contact with Lord Glover... _
> 
> _ … Lord Varys has taken the fall, willingly or not. Anyone will believe tales of poison if they’re angry enough… _
> 
> _ … We cannot let the deal collapse! I cannot fail House Lannister again! Every man, woman and child in this world - they have done nothing but scorn me! They disregard me at meetings, they do not heed my advice. I have had enough… _
> 
> _ … Wildfire, sister. Such a dangerous thing. Hidden all underneath the city, not just the Sept. It could prove most useful… _
> 
> _ … What was it Mad Aerys’ once said? Jaime told us about it. “Let him be king of charred bones and cooked meat”? Yes, that was it. It is now, as we march to place Daenerys on your throne, that I realise he had a point… _

* * *

All of them were signed: y our dearest Brother, Tyrion.

Daenerys looked up from the paper blankly, barely processing what she had just read. She had stood there for minutes, drinking in what had been so cruelly written upon the paper, and at that moment, her grief exploded.

“You!” She screamed. She launched forward, straight at her own Hand, and grabbed him by the throat. “How dare you!”

“Your Grace!” He yelled back.

“Shut up!” She interrupted.

Tyrion. He had withdrawn from her since the Dragon Pit summit, but she never suspected it was due to treachery. She didn’t know. She had never known. Everything swirled in her heart as her fists clenched his bearded throat - fear, anger, grief. It was too much. She let go of him and immediately commanded the Unsullied nearby to take him away.

She didn’t know what to do.

She looked around frantically, her breathing fast and uneven, as she did not know what to do. She was overwhelmed, exhausted, too lost in her grief and fury to even think, to even see. Tyrion yelled and kicked as he was dragged away, but she did not hear. She could hear nothing but white noise.

Arya reached out to touch her, to break the spell of her grief, but Daenerys did not move.

“I have nothing left,” Dany wept.

The last of her advisors, a traitor. She had no Jon to calm her down. No Missandei to wipe away her tears. No Jorah to talk her out of it.

“Yes, you do,” Arya whispered.

But how long until they left her, too? How long until she lost Grey Worm to a traitor’s blade? Davos to old age? Arya to loyalty to the North? How long? How long until she was alone, and she had nothing left but a widow sword? Was it one treachery after the next?

Daenerys did not believe her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who guessed, well done. I may have been slowly making it more obvious.
> 
> Tyrion's always been a bit of an anti-villain for me, and watching him be turned into "but the people!" in s7&8 was honestly, annoying. I'll let the next few chapters explain his reasoning.  
As for the deal, it was THE ONE THING I was adamant about for season 8 before it came out - that we had cut from Tyrion and Cersei's meeting in the s7 finale because treachery had occurred off-screen. That the reason Tyrion was failing and advising her poorly, was on purpose. I had too much faith in D&D, I guess. How dumb of me.


	68. Jaime XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was queer, but he felt no grief. Where are my tears? Where is my rage? Jaime Lannister had never lacked for rage."

Jaime walked wearily back into the castle limits, avoiding the gaze of the common folk gathered in their thousands. Without his golden hand, few spared him a glance. Jaime found he quite liked it - to be invisible amongst men. He had always been renowned, infamous, for his actions and deeds. And now, this day, few souls knew what he had done up in the towers of the Red Keep. They lived in their dreams, that Cersei Lannister, the Mad King’s true heir, had been burned alive by the grace of the Dragon Queen.

Let them believe their rumours, Jaime believed. Let him be Queenslayer, kinslayer, in his mind alone, and in the eyes of the Gods.

Jaime climbed the never-ending steps to the Keep, his legs aching with age as he hit each one. It was times like this that reminded him that he was not the young man he thought and wished he was.

As he emerged into the courtyard, he was greeted by yelling and effort. In the corner of the yard, a smaller man was being dragged harshly from the main keep doors and towards the side wing, where the shortcut to the guardrooms and black cells lay. It was only when Jaime got closer that he realised the yelling was Tyrion.

“Tyrion?!” Jaime called out. He went to wave with his right but forgot he no longer had his metal hand.

Tyrion’s eyes flashed wildly at him, his mouth sputtering into a desperate yell as he drew closer to Jaime.

“Brother! Brother, help!” Tyrion cried. “Help me out of this!”

The Unsullied guards did not wish to stop but were slowed by the steady approach of the elder Lannister. Each of them glared, wary of what he would do.

“What’s happened?” Jaime asked incredulously. One of the Unsullied flinched forward, blocking the younger Lannister from view. 

“He is a traitor.” He said bluntly.

Jaime stared blankly at the group.

“He has betrayed the Queen, and the people,” He continued.

They did not pause before continuing their march to the cells. Jaime reached out, desperate to speak with his brother.

“Tyrion, what the fuck do they mean? What did you do!?” Jaime tried to call out between the moving men.

Tyrion stubbornly kept his mouth shut, anger rising in his eyes as Jaime’s tone became accusatory. He had seen that before - when they had accused him of murdering Joffrey. The difference was, at that time he hadn’t done it. 

“Jaime, get them off me before they take me to the cells! Kill them!” Tyrion pleaded.

Jaime stared blankly as they moved further away from him. Tyrion was pleading. Begging. He was afraid. He hadn’t been afraid after he had supposedly killed his and Cersei’s son. Jaime sighed.

“No,” He declared.

He would not kill one Lannister for her crimes and then absolve the next. Jaime didn’t know the proof, the evidence - but the desperate, rather than defeated, look in his brother’s eyes was all the proof he needed.

Jaime watched as they dragged Tyrion into the hall, staring with defeated eyes as his yells and pleas faded into the distance - a mere echo in the halls. Behind him, someone else looked on too. Her face was solemn, yet enraged. Brown hair. Small.

“Fuck him,” Arya declared, gripping her injured side. “And fuck you too. Fuck all the Lannisters.”

Jaime nodded in agreement, absorbing her anger. He deserved it.

“You’re all the same. Kinslayers and traitors. Butchers.” She continued.

“You’re right,” Jaime offered.

She scoffed, a bitter and harsh sound. Jaime accepted it. He’d always been the one to accept it, his titles, his misdeeds. Cersei and Tyrion, they had denied they were ever in the wrong. Both thought they were the smartest in the room. It depended on the room.

“Her death was too quick. I would have dragged her through the streets.” She spat out.  With that, Jaime flinched ever so slightly but still nodded.

“But she’s dead now. Dead is dead.” Jaime replied quietly.

“Yes,” Arya choked out in a half-sob. “Dead is dead. Tell my brother that.”

Jaime could not offer a syllable of comfort before the young girl stormed away in angry tears. He forgave her. He’d once been angry, too, at the death of his loved ones. Let her rage, he thought, let her grieve for her brother. His vessel was empty. A shell of a man who was once loved. He had no thought much of his future past the next few hours, but he supposed he could take the mournful anger of an eighteen-year-old girl, as the least of his punishment.

Jaime continued his walk inside, though his face marked with fear and sadness. What would become of his last remaining family? Would Daenerys ask him to kill him, as he did Cersei? Perhaps it was a contest, Jaime realised.  _ Who, out of the two of us, will be the champion Lannister killer? I killed Alton, so technically it’s already me. _

Further down the halls stood the older Seaworth and the bastard Baratheon. The two spoke quietly, though Davos’ strong hand on his shoulder was fatherly. Both noticed him at the same time.

“Ser Jaime,” Gendry called out.

“My lord... Ser Davos,” Jaime replied neutrally. He needed to know what had happened. In Davos’ hand, he held a stack of yellow-white parchment, scrawled with ink.

“That’s a lot of letters to have written so soon, Ser Davos,” Jaime smiled.

“Just ask your question, Lannister,” The older man snapped.

Jaime sighed. Everyone always thought he was up to something stupid.

“On what cause has my brother been detained?” Jaime asked, his voice firm.

The two other men looked at each other as if making a silent decision to answer. Davos stretched out a long arm, shoving the stack of papers into Jaime’s armoured chest. Jaime did not flinch, nor look down, as he grabbed the papers and began to read.

He sighed.

Frustration, perhaps, but something else as well. Grief. Anger. Loss. Tyrion’s guilt could be determined on these alone. And so, Jaime would be the last of Tywin’s children. All of their desperate reaches for power, to be Queen or Hands or Masters of whatever the fuck it is people desire, came from nothing but bloodied hands. Tyrion’s hands were drenched in it.

“Satisfied, Lannister?” Gendry whispered, more bitter than he had ever heard the boy. No doubt worrying over his unrequited lady love, Jaime realised.

“What is the Queen’s decision?” Jaime asked quietly.

“She’s not made one, yet,” Davos replied.

Jaime handed the letters back to the older man and walked away, intent on brooding away his incoming grief. It was odd, almost. Jaime did not feel like crying or killing. He just wanted to sit.

Cersei’s fate had been lost to him, even if he had been the one to drive the blade into her heart. And now, Tyrion’s fate was out of his hands as well. Jaime felt helpless. But, Jaime knew he  _ should  _ be. He had thrown his ugly golden hand into Cersei’s pyre for a reason - to put justice over Lannister loyalty.

He just didn’t think the promise would be tested so soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a super long chapter, but I felt as if Jaime's reaction was necessary for components of the next chapter. After burning Cersei, and making his promise to be a true and just knight, this is really that test.
> 
> Next chapter: Daenerys


	69. Daenerys XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The warlocks whispered of three treasons... once for blood and once for gold and once for love."

Daenerys rummaged angrily through a crate of blankets, taking them out a refolding them amidst the crowd on the ground. She had thrown herself angrily into the masses below, desperate to help them, in a time where she had never felt so helpless. Everything seemed out of her hands - the Gods and the fates playing their games above, and merely stringing her along.

She couldn’t think of Tyrion right now, of the fury slowly building in her veins. She needed to channel it, as she had many times in the past, before she became but a wraith of anger. It was late evening, hours since her midday treachery was uncovered. She was tired. She ran on nothing but bread and adrenaline. She knew she needed to eat more, for more than her own sake. Her hand drifted discreetly to her stomach, where she pondered what was to come.

She would rule. That was what Tyrion thought she was here for. She would have her heir, should the gods be kind, and that would be that. A successor, not just to her crown, but her legacy. The child of the Dragon Queen. The child of the White Wolf. _ Oh, my darling_, Daenerys thought, _ you deserve so much better than this hell we live in_.

Behind her, she felt the presence of someone lingering. As she glanced, she spotted the towering figures of two men. Davos and Jaime Lannister. A handless Jaime Lannister. The sight made her eyebrows raise before she turned harshly back to the boxes to continue unpacking.

“Your Grace, you really must slow down,” Davos offered kindly.

“Do not presume to tell me what I must do, Ser Davos,” She snapped, not even looking at him. She immediately regretted it. “Apologies, I’m just-”

  
  


“No need to explain yourself, your Grace,” Davos replied with a small smile, his hands clasped gingerly behind his back. He spared a glance at the Kingslayer behind him, who stood awkward - more awkward than she had ever seen him. 

“May I help you, _ Lord Lannister_?” Daenerys asked, her voice more bitter than she truly intended. How about the whole set, she wondered. Would there be a third lion to betray her?

“Your Grace,” Jaime answered. “I see that you have detained my brother.”

Daenerys turned and stopped what she was doing, intent on listening to what the elder brother had to say. “Are you here to plead his case?”

“Quite the contrary, your Grace,” Jaime retorted.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. She had told Jon not to judge her by her father’s sins, Daenerys found it hard not to lay blame at Jaime’s feet for his siblings’ treacheries. Her heart compelled her to smear all Lannisters with the same traitor’s brush, but she knew, deep down, she could not. Not until Jaime Lannister proved otherwise.

“I’ve read the letters,” Jaime continued. “It’s enough proof of his crimes for you to have his head ten minutes from now. But… you haven’t killed him yet. Why?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you, Ser,” Daenerys spat out.

Jaime sighed. “No, you’re right, you don’t.”

Davos looked awkwardly between the Targaryen and the Lannister, keeping his lips silent in the face of the tense exchange.

“What would it look like, if I were to kill my own Hand? Would I not look like my father? It is the only reason I stall.” Daenerys whispered, looking down at her hands.

“I’m glad you consider such things, your Grace, but I would have to disagree,” Jaime replied, taking a step closer. “You are not your father, and Tyrion is not a man to deliver mercy upon.”

Daenerys looked back up.

“You… support his execution?” Daenerys asked, incredulous.

Jaime was silent for a few moments, swallowing down small tears of grief.

“Tyrion is an angry man. Talk to him. Understand him, and what he did. Whether his answers commend or condemn him, is up to you.” Jaime said quietly. “Seek out answers, and that way, you don’t need to spend twenty-three years battling over whether killing him was right. You’ll know beforehand.”

“Angry men betray all tales,” Jaime continued.

Daenerys nodded slowly, in part baffled she was being convinced by Jaime Lannister of all people. Jaime hadn’t said no, but he also hadn’t said yes. Daenerys felt the same. She spared a glance to Davos beside her, giving him a small nod.

“Take me to him,” She commanded Davos.

Davos brushed past the ageing Lannister, indicating for her to follow. Daenerys paused for a moment, offering Jaime a small nod as well, before walking past him as well. A few of the men and women around bowed as she passed, and she offered them polite smiles as her fingers began to twitch in angry anticipation.

She and Davos aimed for a set of doors, dark and oppressive-looking, that led to the black cells beneath the building. Davos retrieved a wall’s torchlight as he swept by it, holding it out in front of him to guide the way.

The path to Tyrion seemed endless, the winding corridors and steps of the Red Keep becoming more and more unfamiliar to her as she descended to the black cells. She hadn’t been down here yet, in the depths of the castle, but Daenerys already feared what lay below. Perhaps if she were a small child, she would be frightened. Frightened of the monster that hid in the dark.

Davos placed the torch he carried onto a holster by a dark wooden door and tilted his head to its handle. Daenerys looked back at him for a few moments, before taking a deep breath and placing her dainty hand on the door handle and pulling it open with the key the guard provided. One of her Unsullied came in with her, his black armour making him almost invisible in the light-deprived room. She could see nothing that the torch of her man could not provide.

She heard a small grumble in the corner, the sharp slink of chains pulling against the stone. When she turned, Tyrion had stepped closer to her, but his chains, pinned to the wall, prevented him from touching her. Daenerys took a step back, just in case.

“There is no need to be afraid, your Grace,” Tyrion said softly. “We can clear up this misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Daenerys questioned harshly.

Tyrion smiled, the polite one he often offered in negotiations.

“I want an explanation, Tyrion. Now.” Daenerys demanded, her eyes flaring with barely-contained anger.

“Sometimes they can be hard to find, your Grace. Grief… it can be so damaging to one’s state of mind. It makes it frail. Susceptible.” Tyrion said.

She narrowed her eyes, the implication of his words clear as day. “I am not mad.”

“I never said such a thing, your Grace, my apologies.” Tyrion smiled. “I merely suggest we delay such conversations and proceedings of justice. The people may make assumptions, otherwise.”

He played on her fears, but she refused to show it. Daenerys rolled her eyes and walked a little further into the darkness.

“What, so you can escape? Ensure the lies are in place?” She said, her words dripping with venom.

Tyrion had barely been in the cell for a day, but already he looked wild and depraved, standing amidst the darkness. Daenerys would not allow him to manufacture his way out of this.

“Of course not, your Grace! But I have objections to the legitimacy of these… letters.” Tyrion declared, wringing his chained hands together as he dared closer. “Forgery is quite possible. My sister despised me, and I have many enemies in the North. The last revenge, if you will. They could have been planted! Is it not suspicious that Lady Stark was the one to _ uncover _ them?”

Daenerys paused. Perhaps, it could have been possible, had Jon and his siblings not welcomed her Hand with less vitriol than a puppy. But she _knew_. She felt it in her heart, that every word pouring from the dwarf’s mouth now was simply lies. Such a clever man, she remembered.

“So, you mean the North would have had pre-knowledge of what would happen in King’s Landing, knowingly send their men and their Warden south to fight there, and then allow them to be murdered… so that you are blamed?” Daenerys scoffed. “Forgive me for my lack of gullible nature, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion sighed, but his smile resumed. He would not stop.

“I am very committed to your cause, your Grace. Your rule. You know I always have been.” Tyrion replied. “You are merciful. Cersei was not. The wildfire was her own doing - I would never dream of inciting her to use it.”

“Blackwater,” Daenerys replied bluntly. He’d used it before.

“What of it?” He replied tensely.

“I’m pointing out the first of your lies.” Daenerys smiled sweetly. “Though, your words beg and even greater question… If the letters are a forgery, how do you know what is within them?”

At that, Tyrion’s polite facade faltered, a nervous chuckle flowing from his mouth as he looked around the blackened room.

“I-” Tyrion began.

She did not let him finish.

“You wrote your heart onto that paper. Of how _unloved _you were. How _discarded_. How _uncared for_. Poor Tyrion Lannister, the most powerful man in the realm - unable to handle the reality that people do not hate you for being a dwarf, but because you are a cruel… and arrogant… and _ self-serving _little man!” Daenerys interrupted bitterly. She could not help the slither of satisfaction that arose within her as she spoke.

_ Angry men betrayed all tales_.

His nose flared, his eyes were aflame and his lips trembled yet he kept them firmly closed as if trying to stop himself from bursting into a rage.

“You never listened to me!” Tyrion blurted out.

“That is not cause to betray me!” Daenerys replied angrily. “You kept failing me, so yes, of course, I stopped listening! Olenna Tyrell told me that she outlived clever men by ignoring them. Sound advice, on reflection.”

Tyrion scoffed. “Is it, your Grace? She lays six feet under now.”

“Thanks to you,” Daenerys said calmly.

Tyrion snorted in disbelief. Did the man not truly know the consequences of his failures? Did he think himself the cleverest man alive? Daenerys sighed. All men thought they were clever. That, it seemed, was why all men must die.

“Tyrion,” Daenerys offered, “You argue with me now, over the simplest of infractions. At best, it leaves you incompetent. At worst, a malicious traitor. Pick one.”

“You don’t know! You don’t understand what it means to have a family to protect, a legacy to uphold! Your family are years in the dirt!” Tyrion exploded.

“I HAD JON!” Daenerys screamed. The Unsullied behind her stepped forward.

She stepped back from him, clenching her hands into fists at his words. She shook, with rage, with fury. The throne was her legacy, did he not understand that? All these years, she had sought the throne for her family. Viserys had sought the throne for their family. Fine, she would admit a part of it was a selfish entitlement, but she knew her duty was to the people. A duty Tyrion had never understood nor cared for. She didn’t even want to look at him. Tyrion stumbled forward, the kind smile returned to his face. 

“Your Grace, I was merely securing your succession. Your dream! Those letters prove that! I am your Hand, I decided to solve the problem for you when you declared you could not have children! Cersei’s child… it was innocent in all of this. You could have raised it, in your image!” Tyrion rambled.

Daenerys turned back to him, before unleashing the dagger she kept at her side, the one from Arya, and flashing it in his face.

“You… thought… securing my succession… required you to butcher my capital and _ murder my husband_?!” Daenerys said slowly, before erupting into a yell. “I have my own child! One I will raise, without Jon, _ thanks to you! _ Your whole scheme fell apart, the second you discovered I was with child! You’d lost your influence and the only way to get it back was to destroy my victory! To kill my husband!”

“Jon wasn’t intentional!” Tyrion screamed.

“But the people were?!” She screamed back. She angrily tore the knife away from his face but kept it in her hand. It disgusted her - the willingness to sacrifice people with no names, purely because you have not bothered to find their names out.

“They always hated me!” Tyrion blurted out. “They hate whoever their _ king _tells them to hate, to blame!”

Daenerys stood, her mouth agape. Never before had she seen a man so vile in his response, so uncaring. She had heard tales of Tyrion’s trial, that he had called it persecution and threatened to kill the people around him. Daenerys had always disregarded them, for his pleas for less bloodshed seemed genuine. It seemed the only genuine thing was a desire to delay the inevitable.

“You wished me luck,” Daenerys spat out quietly. “You stood there, atop that hill, and wished me luck. You knew what awaited me and you wished me luck, knowing that Jon, that me, my men, the people, would be caught in their flames of your own making! How dare you!”

She could barely contain it now, the anger. The pain of it all, of her lost husband, lost people, came rushing into her heart and her veins and her soul. She could not stand the sight of the man - no, the creature - before her. Tyrion tried to step closer to her but was stopped by his metal chains. His hand shook as he reached out - a no doubt false comfort.

“Your Grace, you have such a kind heart, to care for them all so deeply - just as I know you care for me! I am the last of your advisors, the rest having been lost to the merciless wheel. I can continue to serve you well, for I have learned my lesson.” Tyrion pleaded gently. She looked to him, her eyes brimmed with tears. She felt like a child once more, standing in the darkness and facing her fears. He was the last man standing. But by his own doing.

“Tyrion…” Daenerys whispered as he eagerly awaited her answer. “I have never been so disappointed.”

If she must stand alone in this world, so be it. Tyrion’s face contorted, in equal parts fear and fury. He had been scorned, one final time, and unable to contain the hatred in his heart.

“You didn’t even have a Hand before me! You failed! You lost your first husband and child by your incompetence, and then barely held your control on Meereen until I arrived!” Tyrion spat out bitterly.

“Do not flatter yourself, Lannister,” Daenerys spat back. Tyrion had a hand in Missandei’s death as well, and she had not forgotten. “The braids in my hair are mine, and mine alone.”

“Arrogant child!” He yelled. 

The sound of Daenerys’ palm making contact with Tyrion’s bearded face ricocheted throughout the dark room. 

“You serve only yourself. You have betrayed everything Jon and I ever stood for. Compassion. Justice!” Daenerys seethed.

Tyrion shook his head violently. “Murdering my family is not justice!”

“I haven’t touched a single Lannister! Your brother killed Cersei, not me! You and your brother were always safe from my wrath.” Daenerys said angrily.

“Were?! What have you done with Jaime!? I’ll-” Tyrion screeched.

Daenerys shook her head. “You’ll what? Kill me? I have done absolutely nothing to him, Tyrion.”

“I don’t believe you,” Tyrion retorted.

“Then don’t,” She replied.

The silence hung in the air for a few moments, growing more bitter and cold with every passing second. Would Tyrion call her a liar, if she told him his brother above was not defending him? Not truly, at least. Would Tyrion call her mad? She supposed it did not matter what Tyrion thought of her. It did not matter what name he gave her, only what name she gave to herself.

In her grief-filled bedroom, leagues above them, Daenerys had decided on Protector.

Daenerys stumbled back, nothing but a serene anger present on her weary face. “I need no more words from you, Lannister.”

Tyrion’s eyes went wide, realising dawning on him of the truth of her words. Her condemnation. “Your Grace, _ please_, you must understand!”

“No, Tyrion, I will not. Cannot.” Daenerys snapped. 

He thought his sweet words and clever lies would convince her to keep him by her side, to spare his petty life. Perhaps, a thousand years ago, she would have been able to see. She would have been willing to overlook it, in her desperation for loyal allies. But this man was not an ally, nor was he loyal. And she was not a child any longer. Daenerys moved to walk towards the door, to her exit, but stopped as she lay the final blame on him.

“When I came to this land, I swore I would not be Queen of the Ashes...” Daenerys said bitterly as she turned only her head to the angry man. “... And look what you have made me.”

One last polite, yet bitter, smile from the dwarf. “I'm so sorry about Jon.”

“No, you’re not.” She snapped before walking and slamming the door shut behind her. 

The Unsullied, who had walked out before her, resumed his position as guard of the door. Davos looked at her eagerly, awaiting her command. This man had not just butchered her husband, but her people. He claimed remorse for Jon, but not for the hundreds of thousands of innocent faces he had burned alive. The thought made her sick, though she was unsure if this was not just her child.

“Ser Davos, call the people of this city to the Dragon Pit.” She commanded.

Davos nodded. “For what purpose, your Grace?”

She looked at him, her cheeks stained with angry tears. He looked back kindly, but firmly. Understanding. She said it anyway.

“The Queen’s Justice,” She declared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been eager to write this exchange since like... chapter 1 lol
> 
> I was absolutely ADAMANT when s7 aired that Tyrion would betray her. That he would be her treason for love. Love for his family, love for power - you name it. Tyrion cares for Tyrion, and Tyrion's power and legacy. Tywin Lannister's truest son - the last loyal Lannister. I suppose its years of built-up regret, for causing his family's downfall. But a large part of it is that bitterness of the glass ceiling of power - for him, it had always been in sight but out of reach, and when he saw his influence over Dany wane, Tyrion made a brutal choice.
> 
> [Jaime redemption arc... 99% complete... loading]


	70. Daenerys XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace. They never are."

Daenerys rode proudly through the ruined streets, content that a haggard-looking Tyrion Lannister stumbled behind her, tied to the end of her saddle. She had done herself up slightly, determined to adorn her head with braids once more to spite her Hand. On the ground, thousands lined the rubbled roads, looking up in awe at her, and in disgust at him. A few called out to her. Some begged her aid. Some demanded justice. Some just cried and said her name. 

The Dragon Pit lay ahead, atop Rhaenys’ hill. It was shrouded in burned trees, absent of their winter leaves, leaving the stone structure of the pit bare amongst the sky. Daenerys hadn’t been back here since the summit, since Cersei had uttered her very first betrayal to send men to fight against the dead. She only received one - Jaime Lannister.

She did not know whether he would attend. A few of the attendants in the castle had ridden ahead, intent on claiming their spots amongst the crowd and the dirt slowly gathering inside. As the hill became steeper, she could hear the struggling breaths of her Hand behind her. Though, she supposed he was not her Hand anymore. He had forfeited the title the moment he had betrayed her. Betrayed Jon. Their child.

Entering the enclosure, Daenerys was greeted by hundreds upon hundreds of men, women and children. All of them were lined around the platform and against the wall, about a dozen or so thick. Some had climbed atop the walls and the pillars, determined to have the best seats in the house. Only one space was clear, and that was the centre. A few months ago, the small platform was covered in tents and chairs - a meeting place to rekindle peace in the realm.

Peace. Daenerys almost scoffed. What did Lannisters know of _peace_? Their ‘peace’ meant thousands of burned bodies and charred bones. It was treachery, and lies, and greed. She would have none of it. She wanted her kingdom to be beautiful.

Daenerys climbed down from her horse, doing her best to dismount with care for her baby. It was an honour for a Khaleesi to ride until she gave birth - another part of their culture she held so dearly to her heart. Grey Worm and a few other Unsullied detached Tyrion and shackled his chains to a weight on the ground, preventing his escape. Dozens of Unsullied encircled him, a ring of steel keeping back the crowd as Tyrion Lannister knelt in solitude on the dirt.

The silence was odd - few of the onlookers or the nobles in attendance willing to speak as she walked across the gravel. It was almost as if her footsteps were the only sound to ever exist - for even her dragons were quiet as they circled above. Daenerys looked around, taking in the sight of a thousand Westerosi, awaiting the Queen’s Justice.

At the far end of the platform stood Davos, Arya, Gendry and, much to both Daenerys and Tyrion’s surprise, Jaime. All four stood silent, not interacting with each other with solemn faces and stern looks at the traitor brought before them. Daenerys greeted them all with a nod as she walked to their end and away from Tyrion, shackled behind her.

She remembered burning Varys, how angry she had been. She didn’t feel that now. Her heart was stone, hardened by the grief the dwarf had caused her. When she turned to look at him, she felt an odd sense of calm.

“Tyrion Lannister, you stand here accused of murder and treason.” Daenerys declared, loud enough for the common people around her to hear and drink in. The crowd jeered relentlessly, calling for his blood.

Tyrion stayed silent as Daenerys glared. No defence, it seemed. Not anymore. Daenerys stared down at him, her nose upturned in disgust and dismay of the wretched man. He truly believed what he had done had been right - for his family, for himself. But not for her, or the people. He never really cared about the people.

“This man has butchered your families! Destroyed your homes! He conspired with the woman who starved and beat you so that House Lannister would win the war!” Daenerys continued with a yell. She didn’t wish to speak with Tyrion, but with the people.

They all yelled, the thunder of their angry cries matched only by the distant roars of her dragons.

“Your Grace, I beg your mercy! Let the bloodshed end with the wildfire!” Tyrion begged angrily. Jon’s words. It made Daenerys feel sick. “Your husband was an honourable man! Raised by Eddard Stark! He would not wish my blood this day!”

Arya stepped forward, her fists clenched and ready to pounce. “Do not presume to tell us what Jon would have wanted, you cunt!”

Jon was a merciful man. He knew when you needed to take a step back, when fire and blood did not win you allies. He had convinced her to trust Arya again and persuaded her to allow control of Winterfell in his absence. But he also told of her mercy he did not give. The young boy who delivered his killing blow, hanged alongside the rest. The man who disobeyed his orders who he beheaded. The soldiers of the insurrection who he had executed. He knew mercy. It had never made him weak, no matter how much the likes of Viserys and her father would have thought so. He knew when people deserved.

What would he be saying now, if he were standing by her side? Daenerys closed her eyes. Would he spare him? Exile him? Burn him alive? Would Jon hold her hand and tell her to do whatever she felt like doing? Or what justice demanded? Was he crime against her, alone, or the raging people surrounding them?

Then, she knew her answer.

“Tyrion Lannister,” Daenerys bellowed. “I will not kill you.”

Every man, woman and child looked on in confusion, some, in anger. When she turned around, Arya Stark looked as if she were about to explode - to bear her own blade against Daenerys’ throat and threaten her to kill him. 

Daenerys walked towards her, slowly and gracefully. Every step convinced her of what she must do. Next to Arya, stood Jaime. His face betrayed no anger, no rage. Not even a slither of grief. It was like stone - solemn and full of fortitude. She looked to them both, before setting her eyes on Ser Jaime. He spared a glance at Tyrion, but it was not a look of determination. He looked back to her, and bowed his head as loyal and just as any good Knight. He would not help him. He knew. He understood. She would not kill him. Daenerys nodded slightly to him and turned back to the agitated crowd.

“You will!” She yelled at them.

They erupted into cheers, bloodthirsty and excited at the prospect. Daenerys did not know what was more satisfying: the cheers of her people, or the look on Tyrion Lannister’s fearful face. No one heard her as she proclaimed her first sentence, their yells louder than even that of her dragons, but she said it anyway.

“On behalf of the people of the Seven Kingdoms, I, Daenerys, of House Targaryen, First of my Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm - Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die.” She shouted. With every word, her bones tremble with power, as if a protective dragon had finally awoken from a long slumber, roaring above the crowd. Her sons circled above.

Dragonfire was her justice. But this was not her loss alone to bear. It was theirs. Jorah had always said to her, that the people wanted no part in the high lord schemes, but they suffered the consequences anyway. _ Let them have their justice_, Daenerys thought, _ for once in their lives. _

“Jaime, please!” Tyrion screamed as Jaime refused to move a muscle. “Daenerys, no, please!”

_ Look away, Khaleesi_, the voice of memory called out to her. But she would not. If she were to look back, to seek out the voice of a dead man and ignore the justice happening before her, she would be lost. She had to see their grief.

Daenerys nodded her head to Grey Worm, and in unison, the blackened leather of Unsullied armour moved for the horde, unleashing the sea of furious people onto a frightened and screaming Tyrion Lannister.

Unable to run, Tyrion faced the first of an onslaught of punches and kicks. Each one harder than the last. Daenerys could no longer even see him amidst the crowd, but she could hear him. He screamed as the people ripped at his hair and clothes, and broke his bones. Next to her, Jaime did not flinch, but neither did his look. She did not blame him.

She caught glances of him, of the blood pouring from his mouth and his gargled cries. A woman shrieked as she grabbed hold of his hair, cheering as she ripped it out and held the golden locks in her frail hand. A boy, perhaps only just old enough to wield a sword, picked up a small dragon skull from the ground and launched it at the dwarf’s head. The mob was dozens thick, all of them desperate for a piece of Tyrion Lannister.

Savage, perhaps, but Daenerys breathed in deeply as she watched, feeling nothing but justice.

Eventually, the screaming stopped. The dragons swooped lower and roared, frightening the people who had managed to reach the dwarf. Grey Worm and his men step forward, urging the people back and away from the body. When they parted, they revealed a mangled man, drenched in his own blood.

Daenerys smiled. Not with sadism, but with satisfaction. She knew, at that moment, it all had ended. She stepped forward as the crowd receded to the walls, her head held high, and gave her victory speech - the one deprived of her some days ago.

“We have lost too much! We have lost fathers, mothers and children, husbands and wives! Let it end! Let Tyrion Lannister’s death be the end of this war! Let it be the start of something better!” Daenerys declared. The Unsullied stamped their spears, just like they had done in Astapor. “When I left this kingdom as a baby, it was cruel and harsh and awful. And when I returned, nothing had changed! Tell me, if the Targaryens were to blame for the ills of the world, why did it not end with Robert Baratheon? Babies, murdered at their mother’s feet! Men, butchered at weddings! The wheel turns and we have nothing to show for it except death and sorrow. I say enough!”

The crowd nodded along, entranced by her spirited words.

“Some of you may say I am not your rightful Queen, and perhaps, a few days ago, you would have been correct. By all laws of the Seven Kingdoms, my husband, Jon Snow - son of my brother Rhaegar - had every right to lay claim to the Iron Throne. But _ he did not _!” Daenerys yelled. It felt good to say it aloud. To speak the truth. It was the least that Jon deserved. “He wished to see an end to the wars that have plagued these lands! He died trying to protect this city, and he paid the final price for it! What is the meaning of king and queens if not to protect the ones who cannot protect themselves?!”

A few cheered, the Unsullied stamped, and the dragons roared. Some looked on in confusion as she spoke the truth of Jon’s parentage, but she ignored them. Daenerys stepped forward again, prouder this time, mightier this time. 

“I swear this to you, before the old gods and the new, the drowned god and the red god and the mother of all mountains, I _ will _protect you! I will lift this kingdom from the dirt and turn it into something new - something better!” Daenerys declared. “Consider this my only warning! Disobey me at your peril! We _ will _ leave this cruel world better than we found it, for ourselves, and for our children, and we will do it _ together_!”

That part made her heart hurt. Jon would not be here, but his child would be. She would do it for their child. The thunderous cheers of her people swelled her heart, and when she looked back down at Tyrion’s broken body, she felt nothing. No man would betray her again. She would fix it all.

Daenerys abandoned his corpse to mount her sturdy horse, and waded through the crowds of enthusiastic onlookers with a tight smile. She held back tears - tears meant for Jon. Her sons fly close overhead, silent watchers in the sky as Daenerys ceased to be a mother to dragons, and became a Queen. It was only when she was safely inside the Red Keep, and pleasantly looking over the small harbour within the castle, that Daenerys finally let her tears of grief flow once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brutal death in part inspired by the executions from the Handmaid's Tale. I felt it was quite important to Daenerys that she did not reduce Tyrion's crimes to just her pain, but her people's as well. She's aware of that, and I think it's a vital part of her arc. The common people are never left in peace.
> 
> Speaking of arcs, many of them are hopefully coming to clear conclusions now, as we near the end :(


	71. Arya XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was who he was; Jon Snow, bastard and oathbreaker, motherless, friendless and damned. For the rest of his life - however long that might be - he would be condemned to be an outsider, the silent man standing in the shadows who dares not speak his true name."

Arya walked mindlessly around the battlements of the Keep, taking in the scorched horizon. The fires were slowly coming to their end, but the ash remained. The pain remained. It hurt a little less, now that Tyrion was gone, but not by much. Those moments, when she thought Daenerys would spare the rotten man, Arya had decided to slit his throat anyway. The people beat her to it.

It was so satisfying to watch. Perhaps she was desensitized, but there was something about the man screaming, writhing and yelling, that made Arya smile. It wasn’t like killing Meryn Trant, or Polliver. It wasn’t vengeance. It was  _ justice _ .

The feeling was unfamiliar to Arya Stark’s tired bones.

She missed Jon. Tyrion was probably right, that Jon would not wish him ripped apart by a mob - he preferred the simpler, older way. Hanging, beheading, or, in that one particular sellsword’s case, a good old arrow to the eye. She had a feeling Jon had regretted that one, even if for a brief moment. Or, maybe he hadn’t. He was protecting his family - her, Sansa, but also Daenerys. Arya hadn’t really spoken to her, she realised, unsure of what to say to the Queen as they both grieved.

Arya aimed for the small royal harbour, longing to listen to the soft waves rushing in as the evening washed over them. Darkness was loomed quickly, once proceedings at the Dragon Pit concluded, and most had rushed back inside before the chill in the air became too much for their thin clothes. Arya had put on a fur cloak, similar to one Jon used to wear, to fight off the cold. Winter would still come, it seemed, even without the Night King.

As Arya approached, she spotted a woman dipping their feet in the water. A few feet back from her, her boots lay strewn on the stoney sand. Arya instantly knew who it was, the flow of her silver hair recognisable, even to the lowest of peasants. Arya went to call out to her, but Daenerys waded further in, to her knees.

She stood, mesmerised, as Daenerys started to untie the braids atop her head, letting the metal clasps fall into the knee-high water. Arya swore she heard the sound of her weeping. With that, Arya walked slowly behind her, so as not to frighten her.

“Daenerys?” Arya asked softly. Daenerys stopped and glanced behind her, her eyes and cheeks stained by tears. “What are you doing?”

“I-I just needed to feel something cold,” Daenerys whispered mournfully, the high of executing Tyrion clearly having worn off. “I don’t want to wear my braids right now.”

Arya smiled sadly. “I’ll help you take them out.”

She waded into the water to join her, the water hitting her knees too due to their similar height. Arya reached up to delicately undo the rest of the intricate braids. Some at the back were not as neat as the others, Daenerys having clearly done them herself - rather than Missandei or Jon. The thought made Arya even sadder.

Daenerys didn’t say a word, instead choosing to stare blankly out towards the water and the rest of Blackwater Bay. The small jetty to the left of them bore the only light in the area, a small pit of fire illuminating the water surrounding it. Arya thought it looked pretty, just like Daenerys’ braids.

“Being angry makes me too hot,” Daenerys whispered.

“I know what you mean.” Arya hummed her agreement as the last of the braid clasps fell into the water. “My kill list… it always made me so angry.”

“Is it over? That list of yours?” Daenerys asked quietly, her voice flat.

Arya nodded, though she wasn’t sure Daenerys saw it. Cersei had been the last - though her heart had added Tyrion the second she saw the ink on the paper. Now, he too was dead. No more list. No one left to kill.

“It’s over,” Arya whispered, more to herself. The list was over, and all Arya had to do now was accept it.

The two stayed knee-deep in the water, Arya refusing to move until Daenerys chose to. The older woman’s eyes flitted about, unfocused and unwilling to stay on one thing for more than a few seconds. She opened her mouth to speak, failing twice to bring forth words, before finally speaking.

“I’m pregnant,” Daenerys declared, a sob ripping through her chest the second she finished the last word.

Arya looked back to her, shocked. Daenerys was going to be a mother. Jon was going to be a father. Arya sucked in a deep breath, desperate to hold back tears. She held Daenerys’ hand, leading her back to the sand and out of the water. Daenerys went willingly.

Jon’s baby. Arya’s heart broke and repaired itself in cycles, equal parts grief-stricken and ecstatic that her favourite brother would have a child of his own. Her niece or nephew, if not in blood, then in name. Daenerys wept silently as Arya battled with her emotions.

“Okay,” was all Arya could muster.

She knew, at that moment, what she truly needed to do. The better place she needed to be. Jon could not be here to protect his child, so Arya would be. She would do everything, anything, to make sure this baby lived and was loved. Arya grabbed Dany’s hand as the woman continued to cry.

“The pack survives,” Arya declared, prompting a confused look from Daenerys. “I will protect you.  _ Them _ . I promise.”

Daenerys smiled, but it was marred by more fresh tears. Arya pulled her into a hug, as tight and loving as she could muster in such horrible times. Daenerys was family, no matter how much Sansa believed it false. Daenerys had no one else.

_ I will be there _ , Arya thought,  _ I will stay with you _ .

Looking behind Daenerys’ black-clad shoulder, Arya spotted a small fishing boat by the jetty, pulled up haphazardly on the sand. Perhaps it had meant to be Cersei’s escape. It mattered not, for at that moment, an idea sprung Arya’s mind - one that she both knew they desperately needed.

“Where are you going?” Daenerys choked out as Arya brushed past her.

“Come with me,” Arya urged, beckoning the petite woman with her hand. Arya pushed the small wooden boat out so that it bobbed gently in the still waters.

Daenerys hovered awkwardly behind her as Arya unclasped the fur cloak around her small shoulders and placed it neatly in the boat. Fur. It had always reminded her of Jon. Realisation dawned on Daenerys’ tired face, and she reached to her chest to remove the dragon pin she had pinned there - the one she often left in her hair instead. She placed it on top of the cloak gently.

Jon had been Stark and Targaryen, but they had nothing to bury or burn. Arya would make sure he would get a statue at Winterfell - one he deserved as a Stark and King in the North. But, Arya knew she could not leave Daenerys with nothing. Arya scurried over to the pit of fire, glad to see that a small torchlight lay nearby. She picked it up and let the raging fire light, bringing it back to the small boat and illuminating both their sad faces.

“I know this is kind of a Tully thing, but I’m half-Tully, so I’ll allow it,” Arya half-joked. “Would you like to do it?”

Daenerys nodded gently. “Yes, please.”

She grasped at the burning wood and held it close to her face. Perhaps too close for Arya’s liking, but she did not worry - for she was The Unburnt, after all. Daenerys paused, as if uttering a silent prayer. She lay down the torch, letting the coat Arya had worn set alight. Her hand hovered in the fire for a few moments, reluctant to let go. Eventually, she did, and Arya and Daenerys both grasped the edges of the small fishing boat and waded deeper into the water and pushed.

The normally harsh winds of winter were in their favour - the still night and waves allowing Jon’s boat to drift without much resistance. Arya liked to think it was a sign from Jon. It moved farther and farther away from them with each passing second, and both women watched in silence as their makeshift funeral for their lost brother and husband came to its end.

Arya sighed as tears stung at her eyes. Everything was finished: the war, her kill list. The future lay ahead of them, one that Jon would not see. Her heart grew heavier with the thought he would never mess her hair up again, or plant a kiss on her forehead.

_ I will be there _ , Arya declared to the void, to the sky, to where she hoped Jon was listening,  _ I will look after them for you _ .

Silent tears fell down both their cheeks, and Arya and Daenerys stood together, hand in hand, as they watched Jon’s boat drift into the endless sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was originally from Dany's perspective, but I felt that, seeing as it was essentially the culmination of Arya's character arc, that it should definitely be from her POV instead.
> 
> Justice really gives a 'high', that unfortunately does not immediately diminish the grief someone feels. For context, when this scene was originally Dany's, she did a lot of thinking about how alone she was in that moment - now that she had lost all of her advisors with the exception of Grey Worm. Arya's POV, while depressing, I hope is a bit more hopeful.
> 
> I thought it important that Jon got a sort of 'funeral', no matter how impromptu and small it was. It's sort of where the quote comes in: that as long as people are around to remember Jon, Jon would not be forgotten.
> 
> The sort of 'continuous' chapters are coming to an end here. The next few don't take place immediately after one another, unlike everything since chapter 50-something. I will make sure any passage of time is clear!


	72. Daenerys XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was a child yesterday. Today I am a woman. Tomorrow I will be old."

Daenerys sat quietly in one of the many offices of the Red Keep, watching as servants and guards scattered around her - preparing the Keep. A week or so had passed since Tyrion’s execution, and the attention of the realm had turned to the coronation of Daenerys I Targaryen.

The thought made Daenerys sigh.

She worried. A local maester had examined her and told her that her baby would be fine, but still, she worried. For their life, for hers, and their future. She desperately wanted them to know about Jon. She wanted her baby to know how much she loved him, how brave he was, how his face had lit up with joy when she told him she was with child. So, Daenerys had started a little project, which had left her covered in ink and wrought by hand cramps.

The large book lay in front of her on the desk, most of its pages currently empty. Arya had been helping her with the first bits, telling her everything of Jon’s childhood and what he did growing up - the things Dany didn’t get to see. Soon, she would get to her piece in his story, to their relationship and war, and she would weep as she writes down his death.

Daenerys rubbed a hand over her small belly, practically unnoticeable to those who did not already know. She was a petite woman, and she could hide any changes for a while with dresses and belts. It was a comfort, Daenerys thought, knowing that someone was with her. That a piece of Jon was with her. She hoped their baby would inherit his kindness, his honour, his mercy. She smiled as she imagined what they would look like. Boy or girl? Hair silver or black?

It mattered not, for she would love them anyway.

She continued writing, using the notes on Jon’s relationship with Robb from Arya to put it to paper. Her handwriting wasn’t very good - but Dany knew it was not without good reason. One doesn’t exactly learn calligraphy whilst sacking slaver cities.

A man burst in gleefully, the rattling of metal chains hitting her ears before his joyful ‘hello’ did. Grey Worm rushed in behind him, his face clearly exasperated in his pursuit.

“Mhysa, the Citadel has sent its Grand Maester,” Grey Worm confirmed, though his tongue struggled with the pronunciation of citadel.

Daenerys glared slightly at the man who had come in. The Maesters had never been particularly fond of her family, much like the faith of the seven had as well. Yet, the man before her was not a sickly grey like the rest. In his forties, perhaps, with a bouncing and gleeful face that reminded her slightly of Samwell Tarly.

“Your Grace, a pleasure to meet you at last! I have heard so much of you and, needless to say, was ecstatic when the council named me!” The man declared. Daenerys could not help but smirk at his childish excitement.

“A pleasure… um?” Daenerys said with a small smile.

“Oh, Waylon, your Grace!” He smiled, extending a hand to shake. She took it. “I am here to attend to your needs. We are aware you are with child, of course, but also for any record-keeping needs, as well.”

“Record-keeping?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes, well, you have taken the throne by conquest, in true technicality… So if there are any, shall we say, historical amendments, that need doing, I shall happily see to them!” Waylon said kindly.

“I am unsure of what you mean,” Daenerys questioned.

Waylon sighed with a smile. “Well, histories are often written by those who won their battles. I’d dare say Rhaenyra was a fine example of such revisionism.”

Daenerys almost chuckled. She knew her histories well, of Rhaenyra’s quest for power and fall from grace and death. Daenerys had wondered how history would treat her should she have failed, but alas, she hadn’t. Two weeks from now, the realm would gather before the Iron Throne and bend their knees to her - as the official Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Tell the truth,” Daenerys offered bluntly. “You write how my husband died a hero, how the battles we faced were hard, and the losses were tragic. And you write how Cersei Lannister wasn’t worthy of her crown.”

Waylon nodded politely, compelling Daenerys to continue.

“You write that that evil woman was no more than a butcher and a madwoman. Queen of nothing. Lord of nothing. Protector of nothing. Write that down, if you will, and write down that I will abhor her until my dying day.” Daenerys spat out, unable to stop the rage flowing from her lips. It felt good to get it out.

“Of course, your Grace,” Waylon agreed quietly.

Daenerys returned her gaze to the letters on her desk, unwilling to spare another thought for the woman who had stolen her husband. Most of the letters were the same: acknowledging her rule, regrets for not attending her coronation due to bad health, a few marriage offers - though she binned those immediately. The only letters that concerned her now were the ones from the North, sitting patiently on her oak desk, their authors newly embittered that Jon had not been who they thought he was.

Luckily, those who would have been most enraged by this had burned in the last pyre of Winterfell, and those left were simply graced with a bitter taste in their mouth. Some loved her, of course, and as such their loyalty was steadfast - but the ilk similar to Sansa Stark, who had bent because they did not wish to break, were clearly irritated.  _ Jon could have been King _ , one had written to her.  _ Jon’s child will succeed him _ , she had replied. There was nothing they could do about it now, for he was dead.

With that, Daenerys swallowed a small sob.

Her mind was still entrenched with thoughts about the North, of how tenuous their love for her really was, as Waylon and Grey Worm stood patiently as she was lost in thought. The North feared her, obviously - and she needed that fear to do what she so desperately needed to achieve. After a few moments, Waylon bowed, preparing to take his leave, before Daenerys stopped him.

“Grand Maester,” Daenerys called out as he turned. “How is your handwriting?”

“Impeccable, your Grace,” Waylon smiled.

“Good. Sit with me.” Daenerys patted down on the table next to her. The man’s joy was refreshing, and the inspiration of the quill struck her like lightning. “Grey Worm, would you retrieve Ser Davos and Arya?”

Grey Worm nodded quickly and left.

“I want to change things,” Daenerys said quietly, leaning forward in her chair.

“What things… Your Grace?” Waylon questioned as he took his seat.

“Everything,” Daenerys whispered with a low excitement.

Westerosi justice was all wrong. There was no power for the common people. Too many high lords. Too few ways of climbing the social ladder. Intelligent low men, squandered in the streets, and high lords of cruel intent given too much power over those who it was their duty to protect.

She would protect them.

Daenerys smiled. She had things to change, to achieve. A book to write for her unborn child and a string of practices and laws she wanted to implement the second she finally wore that damned crown. She excitedly walked to the bookshelf behind her and pulled out a history of the reign of House Targaryen. She would turn her grief into action, she decided. She would learn from the successes of those who came before, and their mistakes. Perhaps to look back, was not all to be lost. To look back was to learn, to document, and to know. To go forward, she  _ must  _ look back.

She was only young, and could not claim the wisdom of a thousand men. She decided she would fill her small council with anyone of merit she could find, irrespective of their birth. No favours or scheming, if she could help it. Her reign would be one of justice, of reform. No longer could she let her family’s brutal wheel of suffering keep spinning. She would bring Arya and Davos and Southerners and Northerners and bring them around this table and solve as many issues as she could.

And they would do it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus begins the slow dismantling of the wheel. Is she going to get it completely right? Probably not on the first attempt - but damn she's going to try.
> 
> A little bit of insight into the Northern reaction, that will be expanded upon a bit further (there is a Sansa chapter incoming).
> 
> I suppose you could call this Daenerys' realisation of what looking back really means. In the books, it's quite an unhealthy coping mechanism on her part and becomes part of a sort of denial of mistakes. Here, she knows that looking back is not to ignore what came before, but to refuse to lower herself to it. She says it in the Tyrion execution chapter, that she must face forward and look at his death - but to look back at those who ruled before her, and to input reform and refusing to be more of the same - she is finally moving forward.


	73. Jaime XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This was justice. Make a habit of it, Lannister, and one day men might call you Goldenhand after all. Goldenhand the Just."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief mention of suicide

Jaime stared silently out the window, observing the sprawling, but ravaged, city below. Many rushed about, trying to rebuild their lives and tend to their dead. A huge cemetery was slowly forming outside the walls for those reluctant to burn their dead, the small dots of fresh soil visible on the horizon. The sight saddened him - for the dots arguably numbered more than the lives lost during the wars Jaime had already seen.

But that was not the only grief which tore at his heart. How many days had passed since he’d witnessed his brother be torn apart, by the very people who bustled below? Ten, eleven? He didn’t really know anymore.  He had remained in his tower since that day, voluntarily locked away in the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard’s smaller tower. He wasn’t a recluse, as such, but Jaime felt nothing compelled him to go outside - and that no one wanted him there anyway.

He was the last, now. The last Lannister who counted. He had stood by in the name of justice as the Queen executed his brother. Jaime had chosen to uphold justice and defend the innocent, at the expense of his duty to his House. Would Brienne be proud of him, he wondered? Would she say he did the right thing, the correct thing? He supposed it was a question to ask himself in ten years. He had witnessed his brother's desperate attempts to avoid his fate and had pushed the Queen to judge him herself. He had spoken no words in his favour. He had not stepped forward when Queen Daenerys said aloud her sentence. All of this talk to Daenerys about ensuring her decision was right, and Jaime had barely thought it through himself. 

But it wasn’t a thought. Righteousness was a feeling.

Looking out the window, Jaime briefly considered throwing himself from it, just like his poor Tommen had done after Cersei had murdered his wife. Tywin’s proud children - it almost made Jaime laugh. One, ripped apart like meat in a market, one stabbed for insanity, and the last, a mess on the courtyard floor. A foot inched towards it, but when the loud creak of the door filled the room, Jaime stepped away.

“Ser Jaime?” A woman’s voice called out.

Jaime turned to find the Queen standing in his bedroom doorway, dressed in a grey and red dress. Gone were the sharp shoulders and high collars - her dress was simple and flowing. Her hair was in a long braid, unadorned with any other jewellery. She looked a bit like Rhaella, but the Rhaella of the Mad King's final days - mournful and tired.

“Your Grace,” Jaime said as he bowed respectfully. His legs stiffened at the effort.

The Queen had her good days, and her bad. When Jaime would peer downstairs to find food, he found that some days she wrote, her hands covered in ink by sunset as she set about reforming her kingdom. Some days, Jaime did not see her at all.

“We haven’t had much time to talk, Ser Jaime,” Daenerys said.

“Ah, well, I’m sure you have more important things to attend to,” Jaime replied. “Thank you for letting me stay in the Queensguard’s rooms.”

Daenerys smiled politely. “About that… I came to inform you that you will need to vacate after my coronation in a few days. I have named a new Lord Commander.”

Jaime nodded - Grey Worm, no doubt. Inevitable, obviously. Grey Worm was capable - and loyal. As for himself, he supposed he would have to leave his self-imposed cage eventually.

“My condolences,” Daenerys offered. “For Tyrion.”

The look in her face was genuine, but not because of any love for his brother. Her look was one of sympathy, and an undercurrent of understanding. She knew he hadn’t left this room in days.

“And my condolences to you as well, your Grace,” Jaime returned.

Both stood there, a mournful look on both of their faces. The weight of the room grew heavier with grief, and for a brief moment, Jaime wished they were having this conversation outside, where the sun was shining.

“Justice has been done,” Daenerys whispered.

“And has it made you feel any better?” Jaime retorted, though not unkindly.

Her head snapped up as she pondered the question. “No,”

Jaime already knew that answer. Satisfaction was different from closure. Killing Tyrion, in the moment, would have felt good - but then? Then, there was no one left to direct your anger against, your rage. Then, you are left with nothing but your tears.

No doubt the city felt the same. Did they feel any better when they heard Cersei had been killed? No. They longed for the chance to do it themselves. Jaime had found it revolting, the sound of his screams and flesh tearing. He stomached it, though, as any just knight would have. But, Jaime could not simply forget it was Tyrion he heard begging for his life.

Justice had been done, but Jaime had not eagerly listened to the sound of it.

“It was brutal,” Jaime offered sadly.

Daenerys looked down, as if nervous. She knew it was, of course, but it was not she who had done it.

“It was,” She said quietly. “But perhaps necessary.”

Jaime nodded solemnly. Perhaps it had been. A Tyrion in exile would have sowed nothing but discord and schemes - a problem, years in the making. But, a mob? Fists and kicks and screams? Was that what justice must sound like for it to be done?

“So, shall we bring the crowd for every execution?” Jaime asked a bit bitterly.

He didn’t really know what was next, what awaited him outside these doors. Would the people beat him to death as well? For his crimes against them? For propping up Lannister and Baratheon rule? For defending the Mad King, even if he was the one to kill him in the end? What would his punishment be?

“No,” Daenerys said quickly. “I want to fix how we do justice here, but we needed to start with that. For too long, the people have been crushed by us - I want it to end, but I cannot break the wheel with one swing of an axe.”

Jaime sort of understood, but it didn’t make watching his brother’s death hurt any less.

“Has justice been done, for me, your Grace?” Jaime blurted out as Daenerys turned to leave. The petite woman turned back around, throwing a confused glare at the Lannister. 

“What do you mean?”

“Punishment, for my crimes.” Jaime declared.

Daenerys walked towards him, a slow step at a time. Her grey dress fluttered behind her as she walked, and her face was deep in contemplation.

“What crimes?” Daenerys said bluntly.

Jaime scoffed. Need he go through them all? He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, feeling tense that he had brought up such a conversation. He would scratch at his metal hand if he had it attached to him. It was weird without it. He was naked again.

“I am going to thank you again for saving me and my sons at Winterfell against that mercenary. But you must listen to this next part carefully.” Daenerys said. “I have nothing left to forgive you for.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes in scepticism, unsure of what the Dragon Queen could possibly mean. He opened his mouth to speak, to correct her, but she shushed him.

“Your murder of my father, wrong as a matter of morality rather than reality, was paid for by the fact it saved this city, and that you lived with an arguably unjust insult of a title for decades after. Your hand in the downfall of the Starks? Pushing Bran from a window, attacking Ned? Jon told me. You paid for those by defending said Starks against the dead, with no reward for yourself.” Daenerys continued. “Your hand in maintaining Cersei’s early reign? You paid for with the knife you shoved in her heart.”

Jaime swallowed, overwhelmed at the words pouring from the young Targaryen’s mouth. It was as if she were writing truth upon paper - speaking his redemption into existence.

“So, yes, you failed to protect my mother. You failed to protect my brother’s family in their time of peril. You also were not to know that Tyrion and Cersei had conspired to set off the Wildfire.” Daenerys said sadly but firmly. “Those are not crimes, Ser Jaime. They are only regrets.”

Jaime’s eyes welled as she spoke, the remorse of his helplessness building up inside him like scalding water in a damn kettle. Her words were too kind, too understanding. She was meant to hate him. Everyone was meant to hate him.

“I- Your Grace, crimes or no, what I caused was unforgivabl-” Jaime tried to butt in.

“I am not forgiving you.” Daenerys interrupted harshly. “Forgiveness for those acts is not mine to give. Only Elia and her children can give you that. Only my mother can give you that. My faith in the Gods is tenuous at best, but if you believe you will see them as you leave this world - you must ask them then.”

Jaime almost imagined it - Queen Rhaella, Princess Elia, her children, all huddled around a warm winter fire, awaiting him so that they may give him hell. It was what he deserved.

“I don’t know what else I can do for them,” Jaime whispered mournfully. “For them, for the people.”

Daenerys walked slowly to the window, leaning on the balcony wall as her gaze intensified at the last Lannister, borderline weeping in front of her. The sun shone on her hair softly, her look far warmer than it had been in the time he had known her. The winter of the North always cast her in such a harsh light.

“You believe you deserve punishment,” Daenerys stated, not asked.

“Yes,” Jaime choked out.

“Then I shall give you one,” Daenerys declared with powerful eyes. “You go back to the Westerlands, to Casterly Rock, and you  _ rule it _ . You remake House Lannister in Brienne of Tarth’s noble image. You leave the Tywins and the Cerseis and the Tyrions in the dirt - just as I will leave Aerys and Maegor and the like. If you want forgiveness that badly, Ser Jaime,  _ earn it _ . Have something to show for it.”

Jaime looked at her intently, overwhelmed once again by her order. Brienne. Brienne would want him to be good, to be just and kind and noble. He was the last Lannister. He would be the father of a thousand Lannisters to come - and he could forge them how he wished. How, in this cruel world, did Daenerys Targaryen have that much faith in him?

“Why? Why such mercy?” Jaime asked amidst barely contained tears.

“It’s what Jon would have said,” Daenerys whispered, her eyes sad and looking at the floor. "Children are not their fathers. Children grow, and change, and _improve_."

He could refuse, he realised. He could brush past her and throw himself to the ground from the crooked window and leave the capital and take the black. But his heart, the one that had always screamed at him for all these years, begged him to take his final chance. To take the final chance, and use it.

_Use it_, his heart begged. _Use me, your heart_, it screamed.

“I am proud to serve, my Queen,” Jaime declared, mustering the strongest voice he could amidst his grief and regret.

She nodded, but her eyes remained sad and lost in thought. How could such a wicked man as Aerys have spawned such a just child as she? Jaime deserved none of her mercy, but he would take it anyway. He bowed. She refused to be more of the same. He refused to be more of the same.

Daenerys moved from her resting spot and turned to leave wearily, heading straight towards the door. She spared one last look back at him, a resolute look of understanding passing between the last Targaryen and the last Lannister.

At that moment, the weight on Jaime’s shoulders, of the shame he had carried all these years, ached a little less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *me at GRRMcdonalds* hi can I have uhhhh... one jaime lannister redemption arc please??
> 
> Here it is: Jaime's last POV for this fic. I hope I've done him justice.


	74. Arya XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face."

Arya deftly weaved her way around the unearthed and fresh soil dotted around the outskirts of the city - the fresh graves making the ground look darker than it should have done. There had been a sprinkling of rain the past few days, the bright summer sun finally leaving them to the mercy of winter.

Groups gathered around certain graves, makeshift funerals happening by the dozen. They had slowly decreased in number over the past few weeks, the majority of the dead having been buried or burned in the days after the massacre. Arya’s destination, however, was not a funeral, but a small outcropping on a hill, overlooking the bay. It was there that Daenerys had reserved a section for the most honoured of her fighters. It was there, that a small stone sat on coarse soil and carved on it, a name. Sandor Clegane.

It was ahead of her, mostly untouched by the rest of the civilians burying their dead. People, in an odd twist of fate, were respecting the site. There was no unearthing, no looting. An argument over space here and there, but mostly… peaceful.  A garden of bones presided over only by the fluttering of birds and the breeze of winter. Arya liked it, in an odd way. It reminded her of the Godswood at home.

Sandor’s grave stood dead ahead of her now, the smooth stone lit by the high noon. It was pretty, at least. Prettier than the Hound’s ugly mug. Would he have laughed, at such a neat and lovely grave, as simple as it was? Someone had thrown a few flowers around the stone’s edges - Davos, no doubt. She had heard he was getting flowers for all the graves, and he disappeared in the evenings to sprinkle them on strangers’ resting places.

Now that she was here, Arya wasn’t quite sure what to do. She had no gifts to leave, no flowers. Only Needle was by her side, and she sure as hell wasn’t giving anyone that. No, Needle would stay by her side because, that way, Jon would stay by her side. Her thumb grazed protectively over the hilt of her blade as she stood respectfully by the graveside, pondering what parting words to grant the giant of a man who had saved her life - directly and indirectly.

“Sandor,” Arya said. There was no one around to judge her for her words. None but the dead, at least. “I think I’ve found it. What you meant, about being at home. I spent so long just trying to claw my way back to Winterfell… and it just wasn’t the same. Not without my mother and father and my brothers. Not with everything that has happened.”

Tears threatened to form in Arya’s eyes, but she continued on.

“But… that’s alright. Jon’s gone, but his baby isn’t. I’m going to protect that child, Sandor. I’m going to do something so much better than just killing every man who ever wronged. I’m going to  _ do something _ . I’m going to teach that damn kid how to stick them with the pointy end, and I’ll tell them about how good my brother was and how much I fucking wished he was here.” Arya continued firmly. ”You made me realise that. You made me realise that… there’s more to killing a man than settling scores. There’s more to life than revenge, as sweet as it may be. I’m glad you got yours, in the end.”

The grave did not respond, but Arya sighed as the weight finally left her. She sighed again, forcefully, unsure of where to go from here. She had said all she needed to say. She had said everything she wished she’d told him before. She could be soppy, for once, and the Hound would not reply with a ‘fuck off’. Arya took the second to imagine him, listening in his afterlife, drinking ale and laughing as she wept at his grave.

She smiled. She was certain he was finding it hilarious - that the mighty Hound could compel a young girl to mourn his death.

“Thank you, Sandor,” Arya whispered, before turning to walk away from the grave.

She needed to be back in the city, otherwise, she’d already be failing at her duty to protect the Queen. She was no Queensguard, of course, but Arya didn’t care. She’d make her own title if she bloody needed to.  The walk back was easier than the journey there, her chest a little lighter having upended her thoughts on Sandor’s grave. Her grief remained, of course. The loss of Sandor was hard, but the loss of Jon had destroyed her. A small part of her was aware of what drove her away from returning to Winterfell - the absence of Jon.

Of course, Jon was not in King’s Landing either, but who would protect his wife and child, if not her? Certainly not Sansa. She’d exchanged a few letters with her sister, most of them curt and polite. Some of the Northern lords weren’t happy, but they’d calmed upon hearing of the Queen’s pregnancy. Apparently, that was something that annoyed Sansa.

Arya remembered her conversation with her sister, atop the battlements of Winterfell, so many weeks ago. She would not save her from the fires - certainly not now. Daenerys was family. Her baby was going to be family. Arya knew her stance: Sansa could either suck it up - or regret it.

Ahead of her, a figure waved enthusiastically, inching towards her as she approached. It was Gendry. He had healed well, though his arm would likely stay scarred and his range of movement in his wrist limited. No issue, obviously, when you wielded a bloody warhammer.

“Arya!” Gendry beamed. “Davos said to find you here.”

“What’s wrong?” Arya asked warily, worry overtaking her chest.

Gendry smiled. “Oh! Nothing at all! I just… wanted your company.”

Arya let a small smile escape her lips as she indicated for him to walk by her side between the graves. The gates were not too far, and the paths less busy this time of day as people fled towards the Keep for the Queen’s offer of bread at noon.

“How is everything going with Storm’s End? Have you made arrangements to go?” Arya asked.

“Yes, I’ll be going just after the coronation. Have to claim my castle in order to own it, obviously.” Gendry half-joked, though the anxiety in his voice was clear as day.

Arya rested a palm on his arm. “You’ll be fine.”

Gendry raised his own hand to hold hers as it grabbed his arm, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Well, I’ve already got a few bannermen absolutely livid. They’re insulted, apparently, that a lowborn bastard could become Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Some don’t mind. A few are eager for a Baratheon in charge again.” Gendry said.

“‘Insulted by a bastard Lord Paramount’?” Arya retorted. “Do any of them know their history? Orys Baratheon was believed to be a bastard!”

“ _ Believed _ ,” Gendry emphasised with an eye roll.

“Shush, my point still stands,” Arya replied, half-smiling.

Gendry chuckled, his gaze glued to the dirt track in front of them as they approached the darkness of the city gates.

“It’s going to be hard, you know. I’ve never really known all this political stuff. Diplomacy. They’re all negotiating vassal treaties and offering their daughters as wives! I don’t know what to do with any of it!” Gendry panicked, though he looked at her warily at the mention of wives.

Arya caught his stare and smiled sadly.

“If you were in the Stormlands with m-”

“-I can’t,” Arya interrupted.

Their walk came to an abrupt halt.  Gendry looked at her, hurt, before gently grabbing her hands.

“Shit, I’ve done this all wrong, forgive me!” Gendry sputtered. “Arya…”

Arya stepped forward, and in the softest action she had done in the past ten years, planted a kiss on Gendry’s stubbled cheek. He froze, in shock, unable to speak.

“I need to stay here. I promised her. I promised Jon.” Arya said softly, but she saw his heart breaking with every word. “Take one of the offers. Marry yourself a strong and clever Stormlands bride and give her children. She’ll help you rule. She’ll be much better than me at it.”

“I’d rather it be you,” Gendry said sadly. “I love you.”

A small part of Arya would rather it be her too.

“And you know what? I think I love you too. I know that makes it no better.” Arya whispered. “But I have to be here, right now. I have to be with my family.”

Gendry swallowed visibly, his heartbreak clear on his face. Arya hadn’t wished to cause him such pain. But she couldn’t abandon King’s Landing. She couldn’t abandon Daenerys and the baby. Now was the time to not be selfish.

Arya moved to walk ahead, aware that he would need space away from her.

“So that’s a no?” Gendry called out wearily.

Arya stopped and turned around, a sweet but sad smile on her face.

“It’s a no right now,” She called back, hopefully.

She had places she needed to be first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that... is our last Arya POV.
> 
> A small ode to Sandor was required for the end of both their arcs.
> 
> A bit of a bitter Gendrya ending (or is it an ending?). I wanted to leave a bit of hope for their relationship - but they've always been a bit of a mutual pining couple in my head. I was also aware that gendrya could not get in the way of Arya's arc - namely, her promise to protect what was left of Jon's family. No more moving around. One place. One goal. One duty to protect her family. As for Gendry... right person, wrong time.


	75. Sansa IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel."

Sansa abhorred King’s Landing.

She remembered when she first entered the city, with her father and Arya and Septa Mordane, all those years ago. She had been so amazed then, for it was so much taller and bigger than Winterfell. She had thought there was no grander place on this earth. Sansa turned her nose up in disgust at her own childish, and so very incorrect, thoughts.

The carriage she sat in was not elaborate - simple and wooden, just as the North represented. Behind the wheels, Ghost walked gingerly behind, the poor pup having refused to stay in Winterfell and who whined endlessly for his dead master. A part of Sansa was surprised Jon had not taken him South, but in hindsight, she was glad. Had he done so, the last of the direwolves of House Stark would have perished in Cersei’s fires.

Her heart still hurt for the loss of Jon. No matter their disagreements, he was her bastard brother still. She had not thought him as competent for the role of ruling Winterfell, but the thought that he had been burned in such a calamity was undeserving of any son of Eddard Stark.

But he wasn’t Eddard’s son, was he? As Sansa stared out the curtained window, she remembered how the Northerners were acting as she departed South for Daenerys’ coronation. She remembered them all gathered in the hall as she told them of Jon’s demise. Anger. Grief. _ Irritated_. Jon was meant to be their King in the North but in the South - by the side of the Dragon Queen to make sure she ruled them fairly. He could have been their King in the South, even without the silver-haired woman at his side.

_ Couldn’t they see_, Sansa thought, _ there was no such thing as fairly? _ Daenerys had burned Northern lords alive, and Jon had watched and let it happen. What could Jon have done, if the Targaryen Queen had decided that the whole Northern realm were traitors? He had made it clear that he would not defend his own sibling when he had abandoned her in the North that final time.

Sansa shifted in her seat at the thought. Was she walking into a den of vipers, once again, just as she had done with her father? Would Daenerys burn her alive when she arrived? Sansa shook the thought from her head. Jon had left her in charge of Winterfell, at Daenerys’ behest. Sansa was Jon’s natural heir, surely?

Sansa gazed outside as her carriage broke through the entryway into the city itself. Several weeks had passed since the fiery massacre, but already people were beginning to return and rebuild their homes. The streets were littered with scaffolds and neat piles of bricks. In no time, King’s Landing would return to its former dirty glory. Sansa scoffed at the thought of it.

Perhaps the people of this city, the vile mob who had cheered for her father’s head, had finally gotten what they’d deserved. They had propped up Cersei and Tommen and Joffrey and Robert. Daenerys saw them as victims, but Sansa was not so naive. The people were conspirators - unwilling or not. A few of them cheered for the Queen as she rode by, welcoming her as she joined the rest of the lords congregating in the capital.

_ Queen Daenerys_, they cried. _ Sweet Daenerys_, they cheered. _Daenerys the Beloved, Daenerys the Just!_

Sansa closed the curtain.

News of the Queen’s pregnancy was commonplace now, the people having rejoiced at the news of an heir to their _good queen_. Even worse, the Northerners had backed down at the information. Some grumbled, of course, but they were satisfied. ‘Northern blood will sit on the throne one day’ they said. _It could have_, Sansa thought_, if Jon had had the courage to take it from her. _If those treacherous lords had not burned her home in the attempt to rid the North of the Dragon Queen, perhaps Sansa would have contemplated joining them.

That way, maybe Jon would not be nought more than dust in the southern wind.

She had knelt, but my, did the deep thrum inside her heart regret it. She had thought Daenerys would protect her better than her Northern lords, but how could she possibly do so? Jon should have taken his crown. He should have defended his claim and taken the Seven Kingdoms and left a true Northerner in charge of Winterfell. Sansa had proven herself capable, twice. Was that not enough?

The carriage pulled to a harsh stop across the cobblestones, and Sansa peeked through the curtains to look upon the entrance to the Red Keep. The Queen’s camp, which had dominated the main courtyard, had moved mostly to the outskirts of the city - allowing the space to be outfitted for Daenerys’ coronation. The Throne room was too unstable for so many people, apparently. Perhaps it was true, but Sansa knew that Daenerys wanted her dragons on show as a crown was placed on her head.

Sansa stepped out, her navy dress spilling onto the stone below. A mountain of steps stood in front of her, and Sansa huffed, already unprepared for such a momentous climb to a woman she barely liked. Ghost sprinted ahead, missing multiple steps at a time as he bounded from stone to stone. He disappeared over the top, but an excited yell betrayed who was waiting patiently at the top.

Peering over the last few steps, Sansa spotted Arya looking worse for wear. Nonetheless, a smile graced her healing face at the sight of the white mass of fur. She affectionately scrubbed at his neck, cheering him on as he howled loudly in response. Sansa smiled as she saw it unfold.

Arya looked up as Sansa emerged over the last step, her smile faltering, perceptible to none standing nearby but Sansa. She stood straighter, her hand dropping from Ghost and reaching behind her back to be clasped. Her eyes, though, were sad.

“It’s good to see you, sister,” Sansa said with a sympathetic smile. The loss of Jon still hurt.

“And you, Sansa,”

Sansa stepped forward, pulling her little sister into an unfamiliar hug. It was nice to see her, amidst the grief they were feeling. Her face was healing from cuts and bruises, but Sansa knew that was not what pained her little sister. Arya nodded when Sansa pulled back, indicating for Sansa and the Northern guards who had followed behind to follow.

The halls of the Red Keep were oppressive, even worse than they had been in her final days here before Joffrey’s death. The stone was cold, but not the comforting cold of Winterfell - it was an artificial coldness, unfeeling and unwelcoming. The Red Keep was for vipers and snakes, not wolves - and it did not welcome those unwilling to embrace the coldness of its walls.

Sansa had to admit, the Keep was looking tired. None of the rebuilding efforts had been directed at the castle, save for the barracks and the chambers of the Queen. Enough to secure her power, of course. Daenerys had directed her men to rebuild the city first, and Sansa almost rolled her eyes for it. The lords of the realm would be congregating at the castle and she had decided to make sure it looked a mess when they arrived? Sansa found it odd - appearances meant everything in the game.

And having Arya greet her was an odd appearance.

“When will you be returning home, sister?” Sansa inquired.

“I’m not,” Arya replied tensely.

Sansa stuttered and shook her head as she walked, confused.

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked incredulously. _ Surely, she was joking? _

Arya turned her head as she walked. “I’m staying here. I promised to protect Jon’s baby.”

Sansa simply stared back, dumbfounded. She would abandon their home for Daenerys’ child? Sansa said nothing else, allowing Arya to peel her eyes back to the stairs in front of them. Sansa simply walked in a confused shock.

Rather than taking her to the throne room, Sansa was ushered up and towards Maegor’s Holdfast. She could hear the murmurs of the lords and Daenerys’ voice cutting through the air. Some meeting of sorts, perhaps. Arya spared a glance behind her as she pushed open the door, pointing for Sansa to hang at the back of the crowd of Lords dotted around the painted map. Sansa softly pushed her way forward, discontent to stand awkwardly at the back as the lords mingled.

Ghost lingered at the back, attracting the attention of fearful lords, who backed away as Arya stood by his side. Daenerys stood at the other side of the room, speaking with a woman clad in grey.

“I hope discussions will begin soon, your Grace. The Iron Islands are an impatient lot.” The woman said with a smile.

Daenerys chuckled. “Yes, I imagine they are. Worry not, as soon as King’s Landing is stable, and I am in a fit state to travel, we shall begin.”

Sansa’s ears pricked up at the interesting conversation. Daenerys spotted the taller redhead manoeuvring through the crowd, but her face did not flinch nor falter - she turned back to the woman and smiled.

“Any news regarding Theon?” Daenerys asked.

The woman’s eyes dropped sadly to the floor.

“I’ve got men searching the bay, but… I doubt we’ll find him, with all that armour on. He’ll be at the bottom.” The woman said quietly.

Sansa paused as she walked, her heart squeezing as she realised Theon was dead. She did not cry, but she wanted to. Daenerys stepped forward and placed a hand gently on her armoured forearm. 

“What is dead may never die, Yara,” Daenerys said with a sad smile.

“Yes, what is dead may never die.” Yara choked out before nodding to beg dismissal. 

Daenerys smiled as she walked away. Nonetheless, the smile dropped as Sansa took the moment to step forward and demand the Queen’s attention. Daenerys’ dress was longer than the ones she had worn in Winterfell, flowing and spilling over her small frame. A growing stomach was slowly becoming visible, but the lack of structured dresses made it less obvious.

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys said politely before looking past her to speak louder to the lords. “My Lords, thank you all for coming! I shall have another of these tomorrow before the coronation at the end of the week. I hope we all maintain productive contact after that.”

The lords and ladies bowed, filing out of the room obediently with their wine glasses in hand. It was odd, Sansa believed, to have them all in the Holdfast, but it couldn’t have been all of them due to the size of the room. Only the important ones, like her.

“Where is Lord Brandon?” Daenerys asked with a smile.

Sansa returned the smile with a small curtsy. “In Winterfell, your Grace. He believed it a nuisance to attend in person due to his… limitations. Also, he assured me that you needed to speak with me specifically.”

“Well, yes, I do,” Daenerys said.

She curled a finger, compelling Sansa to follow her into one of the side offices. Oddly, the Queen did not wear her hair in complicated braids. Instead, she wore it down, spilling down her back, with just two plaits pulling the hair from her face. In the braids, were bells, which rang softly as she walked. Sansa narrowed her eyes at the odd fashion.

Daenerys sat in the ornate chair at the desk, reaching out a palm to offer Sansa the seat on the other side. Sansa took it hesitantly.

“A shame you were late to the meeting of the lords, but it matters not. I hope the journey was alright?” Daenerys said, folding her hands together as she sat up in the chair.

Sansa folded her hands to mirror the Queen. She hated small talk.

“No problems on the road at all, of course. The meeting seemed interesting - are you forming a deal with the Iron Islands regarding something?” Sansa said tensely.

“Yes, we’re negotiating autonomy,” Daenerys said nonchalantly. 

“Autonomy?” Sansa blurted out in disbelief. Daenerys brought her gaze back to Sansa’s angered eyes and _smiled_. “You dismissed Northern attempts out of hand, your Grace.”

“You didn’t ask,” Daenerys said bluntly. “And you had nothing to offer me nothing in return.”

Sansa scoffed, her well-maintained mask swiping straight off of her face at the insult. The Iron Islands had provided Daenerys with a navy, and so got to be independent, and the North died at King’s Landing and at Winterfell, and must suffer under her thumb? It was then, Sansa was convinced, that Daenerys simply hated her husband’s homeland.

Ghost shifted silently into the room as the two women fell silent, his perky face heading straight for Daenerys’ lap and brushing affectionately against her stomach. Daenerys’ face lit up at the sight of the white wolf and her pale hand reached out to offer her love.

Sansa silently fumed.

“I want to change this kingdom. The Iron Islands will earn their independence once they change their ways, as we have already agreed. The rest of Westeros, however, requires a more… long-term solution.” Daenerys said, not looking at Sansa as she focused her attention on the direwolf.

Sansa bit her tongue as she wished to raise hell upon the silver-haired woman sitting smugly in front of her.

“I have numerous plans in place. Councils and representatives. I will be recruiting my most loyal and clever of lords to help me craft new laws and new codes of justice. I need loyalty and obedience, lest the kingdom crumbles and we fall once again into war and anarchy.” Daenerys said hopefully.

Sansa began to understand. She wanted Sansa’s loyalty. Sansa would give it. She would do whatever this Queen wanted her to do if it got her home back - if it got her the security she needed to not have to bend to the will of evil men again. Sansa could be polite and pretty - if Daenerys demanded it.

“I understand, your Grace,” Sansa said sweetly. “You have forgiven me of my past… trespasses, and I swear to serve you faithfully, despite… ideological differences.”

The North would be free eventually. Better to be honest now.

“And serve you shall, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa sat up in her seat, a small smile tugging on her thin face as she awaited Daenerys’ words. She knew the phrases, she knew how appointments of power worked. She had worked so hard for it and suffered so much. Jon was gone, and Winterfell would be hers. She would take it with a heavy heart, for it was only hers with the deaths of her brothers in the twisted South.

Daenerys smiled politely. “But not as Warden of the North.”

Sansa’s smug smile dropped from her face, her lips stuttering as she could not comprehend the words that came from the Queen’s mouth.

“What?” Sansa asked.

“That’s how things are done in the North, yes? Agnatic primogeniture?” Daenerys said with feigned ignorance. “I disagree with it, of course, I prefer Dorne’s succession laws - but I cannot change another House’s laws. Bran is Jon’s heir to Winterfell.”

“B-but, Bran is a cripple!” Sansa blurted out.

“And that disqualifies him, how?” Daenerys replied harshly. “Perhaps it is for the best - a weird twist of the Gods’ will? He can then select his heir from the best and not the eldest.”

Sansa couldn’t believe this. She had repented, and knelt, and ruled in Jon’s absence. Was her loyalty not enough? Was her past apprehension to a foreign dragon queen enough to rip her from her birthright?

“Your Gr-” Sansa began.

“Lady Sansa, please do not kid yourself. You’re not loyal to me because you love me. Or because you believe in my dreams. You’re afraid of me - and that’s alright. But, I cannot move this kingdom forward if the people at my side don’t wish to move it forward with me.” Daenerys said. “You are loyal to the old world, because that is all you know. I see no evidence that you wish to learn a new game.”

Sansa leaned forward. “And Bran believes in it? Bran doesn’t believe in anything!”

“Bran believes in truth. From truth, you can find justice. That is enough for me.” Daenerys said harshly.

Sansa scoffed and leaned back, her blood boiling.

“The North need not bend at all,” Sansa said, half-dare, half-bluff. “Bran is not here to bend the knee.”

Daenerys chuckled softly, though the exasperation was clear in her voice.

“Independence. It’s admirable, truly, but I cannot change Westeros if I am antagonised by the North.” Daenerys said.

“We would not antagonise you,” Sansa said bitterly.

“Lady Stark, you are antagonising me right now,” Daenerys said with an icy glare.

Ghost lay down on the floor, ignoring the tense exchange between the two women. Daenerys sighed, glancing over to the small windows where the expanse of the ruined city could be seen.

“I would like there to be peace and safety between us, Sansa,” Daenerys said softly. “We are family, no matter how much we dislike one another.”

“I do not dislike you, your Grace,” Sansa lied.

“Yes, you do. Don’t lie to me.” Daenerys replied bluntly.

Sansa’s jaw clenched as her emotions flip-flopped from anger to reflexive politeness, a maelstrom of uncontrollable feelings. She was so furious she could barely contain the near-disdainful look on her pale face. _ Littlefinger would be ashamed_, Sansa thought, in a morbid twist of fate.

“I want to protect my family. I will protect you too, as Jon’s sister,” Daenerys continued. There was an edge of bitterness to her tone, and it was then Sansa realised she had failed to offer her condolences to the woman. “I will interfere less in Northern affairs where it is unnecessary for me to do so, but you _ will _obey my laws and heed my commands.”

“My first command: _ do not betray me_.” Daenerys finished harshly.

Sansa’s heart dropped as she said it. She’d heard what had happened to Tyrion. Ripped apart by the peasants - a disgusting fate. Varys had burned alive. The Northern conspirators burned alive too.

“Then I swear that I will not,” Sansa offered reluctantly.

Daenerys smiled politely. “You will say that again in the halls of Winterfell when I visit with Jon’s child.”

Sansa had already prostrated herself in front of the lords once, and now she must do so again? It was near humiliating after her ardent defence of independence. The men would think her a hypocrite. Clever, though, Sansa knew. Her oath would become public then.

“Yes, your Grace,” Sansa said quietly.

Daenerys unfolded her hands and reached one out across the table, but Sansa did not take it.

“A clean slate, Lady Stark. We are rid of the traitors of old, and let it stay that way. Your second chance, if you will.” Daenerys said.

Sansa smiled, but it was forced, and she only wished to either rage or weep. Her heart filled with nothing but bitterness. Daenerys had stolen Northern independence for good and stolen Sansa’s chance for security with it. She was no longer Lady of Winterfell, for that title would belong to Bran’s wife.

Sansa stood and dusted off her dress. She tapped her thigh, beckoning Ghost to follow, but he did not. She huffed and curtsied, before turning to flee towards the great doors.

“There will not be a third,” Daenerys called out sharply as she walked away.

Sansa did not turn to look at the Queen, instead swallowing down tears as her fists clenched. She walked, sparing one last glance at her sister standing blankly by the door, before fleeing the room - furious and afraid for her uncertain future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose, at the end of this, you could call this fic, not Sansa friendly. A woman, who due to the traumas she unfairly suffered, sees the only way to protect herself is by holding power, is robbed of it. Or is robbed the right word?
> 
> Sansa is bitter. She sees the machinations of the South as the reasons all of her brothers save for Bran have died. She sees the South as a murderer of Starks. She thought, in the aftermath of the insurrection at Winterfell, that Daenerys would be different, but Sansa perceives her not to be (emphasis on perceives).
> 
> Daenerys, however, is fully aware of this. She wants to build her new kingdom, and I suppose one of her S8 lines is the truest reflection of this: that the world she wants to build won't be built by those loyal to the world they have. Sansa knows how to live in the old world, how to get power in the old world. Why would she want her as Warden of the North? A bitter ending for Sansa - but a happy ending for Sansa, like in the show, unfortunately, results in the tearing down of other characters' arcs and lives. As pointed out by many of you guys, these two, despite their similar stories and attempts of connection, will never be friends.
> 
> Last Sansa POV.


	76. Daenerys XIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don't you see? Don't you SEE?"

Daenerys held her stomach protectively as she looked out to the city, sat comfortably in a plush and ornate chair in her chambers. It was alight, but not with fire and death as it had been on the last day of Cersei’s terror. No, instead, the people celebrated - with whatever food and fun they could find. Huge masses were heading straight to the Keep, to the courtyard that, for many, had become home in the aftermath of the massacre. The majority had moved on from the Keep - Daenerys and her council had worked tirelessly to find places for them to stay.

But they worked tirelessly for another thing. Her coronation day. Today.

A young serving girl delicately braided Daenerys’ hair behind her, her small and dainty hands perfect for the job. Alma, Daenerys remembered. The little girl from before. She wasn’t the best at handmaiden duties, but Daenerys was not so bothered with her looks as she had been previously. As long as her hair was from her face and her clothes were not dirty, she did not care.

Dany could see the edge of her reflection in a nearby mirror, the bright colour of her dress a stark contrast to the dull brown walls. By the Gods, the tailors had battled with her. You should wear black, your Grace. Red, your Grace. White. Purple. Grey. Daenerys had decided on none of them.

Today, her dress was blue.

She looked younger the second she had put it on, her mind half-expecting to turn around and face the expanse of Meereen from the balcony. Daenerys liked blue. A strong, Dothraki colour. An ode to her days as Mhysa, even if most did not know her by that name here. It mattered not - for once, Daenerys wished to wear something just for herself.

The dress was slightly longer than her Essosi one, but her riding leathers were certainly still underneath. It was simple with no embroidery and instead of a sleeveless torso, it had long capes that practically engulfed her in a deep blue ocean of fabric, but it was a bit tight around the waist - the tailor clearly not taking into account the child growing within her. Daenerys rubbed her belly protectively as the girl finished her braids.

Daenerys patted the back of them, smiling at the young girl to dismiss her so that she may also enjoy the festivities. They were not as intricate as she had done before, but she could not fault little Alma. Instead, four or so braids lined her head like a halo, the rest of her hair dripping down her back freely - a perfect style to place a crown on.

The bells rang, and the sound made Daenerys freeze for a second, before she remembered they tolled for the time, and not for death. Grey Worm placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, shocking her also, for she had completely forgotten he stood in the room with her.

“Mhysa, I believe it is time to go,” He said softly.

Daenerys smiled up at him, patting his gloved hand as she moved to lift herself from the chair. With some effort, she rose, and she spared one more glance to the scarred city below before turning towards the door.

Grey Worm followed faithfully, his smile a joyful zeal she had not seen on his face since well before Missandei was stolen from them. He kept looking at her blue dress, and she knew then, she had made the right choice. If the Westerosi did not understand the colour, her men from across the Narrow Sea would.

She walked eagerly through the keep, the halls mostly empty save for guards and the odd servant. The coronation was not to be held in the throne room, the roof having collapsed in further a few days after the battle. Instead, it would be held outside, where all of the realm could come to see, if they had the bloody eyesight.

The main doors lay just ahead, and already, Daenerys could hear the cheering. The noise was like thunder, only drowned out by the intermittent roar of her sons soaring through the clear sky. She reached out for the handle, ready to let the fresh air consume her, but Grey Worm reached out again.

“Before you go,” Grey Worm said softly in Valyrian, a wary eye glued to the door. “I wish for you to know something. It does not matter what the Westerosi call you. You will always be the breaker of chains. You will always be Mhysa. We will always love you.”

Daenerys looked up to him, her eyes bunched and welling with feeling.

“I am so proud. I am proud again, today, to be Grey Worm.” He continued.

Daenerys hastily stopped a stray tear fall, grateful for his kind words. He had taken his name and kept it because it was his the day he became free. She was so glad for him. She was so glad to call him a friend.

He was right, though. So many names. They would give her so many, yet she already had her own. The Essosi would call her one thing and the Westerosi another. But she would always be Daenerys. She would always be Dany - even if there were none left to call her the name.

“Thank you, Grey Worm,” Daenerys said sweetly, her mind desperate to be pulled from the image of Jon. 

She threw her arms around her general and squeezed him tight, earning her a surprised yelp from the man. She chuckled lightly before turning back to the door, already running late for her own coronation.

She was greeted by thunder, but not from the sky. The crowd roared as the dragons landed on the two towers overlooking the huge plaza, the noise of their cheers and yells overtaking even the loudest of conversations. The sun was setting on the horizon, but the light was still bright and the sky was still clear for the most part. Daenerys walked through the brisk breeze straight toward the sound, her heart begging to stay steady as she neared closer.

In the archway, stood some of her Lord Paramounts. Jaime Lannister. Gendry Baratheon. Yara Greyjoy. Edmure Tully. Alekyne Florent. Elia Sand, or rather, a newly legitimised Martell. Arya and Sansa Stark stood as well, a symbolic replacement for the absent Brandon Stark. All of them stood politely as she approached, offering their bows and small smiles as she opened her mouth to address them.

“My Lords,” Daenerys called out above the noise. Another bow from them all. “I assume you have decided the proceedings of this coronation between yourselves?” She continued.

“Yes, your Grace,” Gendry replied eagerly, sparing a glance at the handless Lannister to his side before glueing his eyes back to Arya in longing.

Daenerys sucked in a breath, her anxiety simultaneously heightened by his words yet softened by the soft roars of her sons above the brick. When she looked to Arya, the young woman smiled - a comforting one, a knowing one.

Dany would kill to have Jon by her side at this moment. She’d cast away her crown if it meant she could have him a little longer. But he wasn’t. He would not come back to her - not even if the sun rose in the west and set in the east.

“Shall we begin?” Daenerys said quickly, firmly. 

She urged them forward, the lords walking in two lines through the archway and into the light of the day. Daenerys followed.

She could see it then. The Iron Throne.

They had heaved it out so that her coronation could take place under the sky so that the people could see her sit upon the mangled swords. From here, it looked as if it were ablaze, the sun in the distance shrouding it in bright light.

Daenerys kept walking, reaching out to graze the arm of the throne with her fingers but she stopped as the iron dared close to her soft hands. Something about it was too cruel to touch.

The crowd erupted as they saw her silver hair appear from the back of the throne. She stood out amongst the rest, and not just for her hair. All the Lords were dressed in drab greys and soft reds - the bright blue of her dress and cape were unfamiliar against the brutal stone of the Keep.

The Lords walked further down the steps, co-ordinating themselves so that they stood evenly on both sides. Daenerys walked down as well so that her head must have looked like it was beneath the Iron Throne. She stood, clasped her hands together, and waited. A part of her felt like she was on Illyrio’s steps once more, awaiting her future.

It took a few moments for the masses to quiet, but they did. Her sons grumbled behind her as some continued to cheer, but they refrained from scaring the poor people below.

“People of the Seven Kingdoms!” Gendry cried out. “We come here today to crown a new Queen!”

He turned and offered Daenerys a kind smile, his laboured and nervous breath visible as he stood closest to her. To her other side, stood Jaime Lannister, who in his hand, held a silver crown that had been passed to him by Waylon, stood further down.

He stepped closer, equaling her in height despite being a few steps down from her. But he did not place it on her head. No, normally, that would be the job of her Hand, and she had yet to name one. Instead, Jaime passed her the crown, carefully balancing the metal between his left hand and right severed wrist.

Daenerys reached out and took it delicately, and was surprised at how heavy it was. It was plain, jewelless, except for intricate engravings around the rim. Daenerys took a second to look closer and realised they were dragons, and that the rings underneath were broken chains. Daenerys spared a glance down to Grey Worm, who stood proudly as he smiled back.

She lifted it, slowly and surely, and placed the pale metal upon her braided head.

It took a second for her head to rebalance herself, for her posture to straighten once more. But then, she lifted her head, and the crown felt as if it weighed nothing at all - as if it had always been there.

“I now proclaim, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!” Jaime Lannister yelled out, his words echoed by the words of the other lords around her.

The crowd roared once more, and Daenerys’ heart almost burst there and then. Perhaps she was in a dream, she wondered, but she knew that it truly could not be. Jon would be here if it were a dream.

She turned, moving her head to face the dark steel behind her. When she looked, she did not flinch, nor did she fear - but something else grew inside her heart at the sight of it. Disgust. Anger. Discontentment.

She heard nothing, only the sound of her own breathing as dared to take a step up. The crowd roared, her dragons roared - but the only thing that deafened her now was her pain.

The throne was mangled, and though the blood had not stained, it was covered in it. Most men at her side here coveted it, whether they knew it or not. The Throne was power. It was worth more than the crown upon her head and it demanded more than any man could ever hope to say.

The Throne was death. That’s why she dared not to touch it again.

She was the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, the man who, like her, had claimed this land and decided to forge a new path for it. His evidence was this chair. What would hers be? There had been enough suffering in this land to last a thousand years. Let it end, she had said at the Dragon Pit. No more fire. No more death. She wanted her kingdom to be beautiful. She wanted to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. How could she do such a thing, seated upon such a twisted and bloodied chair?

Daenerys looked up to her sons, near-angry tears in her eyes, Drogon and Rhaegal attentive to her commands. Inside her, was her child, who she begged would see the light of day. Her heir. An heir to her kingdoms, to her crown, to her legacy. Not to this throne, she decided, there and then. Her baby didn’t deserve the pain and death this throne had so cruelly given her.

Gendry placed a soft touch on her arm, his smile curious yet so sweet. He urged her forward, to sit on the iron and claim her throne. Daenerys stared back at him, almost child-like, but a resolve burst out from her that made her features hard and determined. For the first time since she mounted Drogon in Daznak’s pit, her blood screamed at her. Sang at her. It boiled in her veins and thundered in her heart.

_ Burn it _ , it said.

A flash of the image of Quaithe appeared before her, her spectral image the same as it had always been in her dreams. She wondered if Quaithe was smiling, beneath her mask of red. At that moment, Daenerys decided to listen.

“Dracarys!” Daenerys cried out as she turned back to the throne.

Drogon and Rhaegal shifted and turned, their claws digging into the stone they were sat on like a vice. Their eyes burned, in love, in rage, as they felt their mother’s grief and fury. They both pulled back, growing so tall she thought they would touch the clouds, before crashing back down to unleash dragonflame on the throne below.

The throne turned white almost immediately, the sight almost blinding as the sun on fresh snow. The crowd behind her fell silent in shock, and her lords backed away with gasps and murmurs as the heat became too much to bear. They feared it - the flame, the heat - but Dany didn’t.

The iron began to twist and scream, the tall pillars at his height bending forward as it melted. Daenerys smiled amidst her tears as it fell, as the molten iron began to flow to the floor and inch down the steps towards her dainty feet. Her sons roared as they finished it off, as the throne became nothing more than a heap of iron on the steps. Each roar was louder and clearer than the last. Roars of triumph. Roars of love.

_ I am the Queen of a molten throne _ , she told herself as it began to halt its descent down the steps, _ I must reforge it anew, Quaithe had said. _

For a moment, she felt them. Every King and Queen and Hand who had sat upon the throne and cut their hands. Every man, woman and child who had ever bled and died for it. She swore, for a split second, she felt the soft hands of Jon upon her shoulders, before such a loving phantom touch disappeared as quickly as it arrived. She hoped he was proud of her.

Daenerys turned back to the crowd, her tears burned away by the heat of the smouldering throne. All of them still stood silent, stun and shock painted on their faces. It wasn’t fear - for that, Daenerys was relieved.

Below her, Jaime stood with his mouth agape, while the others were merely unable to peel their eyes from where the throne once stood. Arya was the only one who dared close, who reached out to squeeze her hand once before turning back to the crowd proudly.

“Long may she reign!” Arya shrieked, desperate to make sure everyone heard her.

“Long may she reign!” They cheered back.

The roars resumed, and Daenerys stood sentinel at the top of the steps as she took the moment to calm herself. She promised she would protect them. She  _ will  _ protect them. What else was a protector for? What else was a  _ mother  _ for?

She breathed in, deep and long, as the crowd drifted into white noise in their excitement. She closed her eyes, longing for steady breathing to calm her nerves and soothe her soul, to give her the strength to rule as she needed to do. She breathed in again. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

And when she breathed out on the final breath and her eyes reopened to face her people, the ever-spinning coin finally landed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF THE IRON THRONE WAS GOING TO BURN, DAENERYS WAS GONNA BE THE ONE TO DO IT. None of this "Drogon has a PhD in feudal politics and understood it as the root cause of his mother's downfall". Also yes I was saving this quote for this chapter. My favourite Dany quote.
> 
> ~~ An Ode to Daenerys ~~  
Daenerys Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Breaker of Chains - and of thrones. Daenerys is not mad. She is not a tyrant. She will always be the villain in other people’s stories, in Sansa’s and Cersei’s and the lords who will try to resist her, but I know who she is to me. A liberator. A reformer. A Queen who picked herself up from the dirt and fought tooth and nail to place that crown upon her head. Along the way, she has loved… and lost… but she is still her. In the first chapter, Daenerys questioned what name she would be remembered by - and I think the answer is clear. 
> 
> She is Daenerys. And Daenerys is whoever we want her to be.  
~~  
Jesus Christ... we're like... ALMOST FINISHED. I might cry. Epilogue next, and will be up shortly because I've already edited it and don't want to leave you guys waiting.


	77. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Smith, he labours day and night,  
To put the world of men to right,  
With hammer, plow and fire bright,  
He builds for little children.”

The sun shone brilliantly, the heat of the summer breeze forcing the little girl perched on the walls of the garden to a simple white cotton dress. Her feet dangled as she squinted through the light to watch the spar in front of her, their grunts and the occasional whack the only confirmation that the two had not left her alone amidst the greenery.

“Ow!” The man cried out, stumbling to the ground as a well-placed kick to the shin keeled him over.

“Dodge faster then!” The woman beamed, sparing a smirking glance to the giggling girl on the wall.

The little girl liked her blade - thin and pointy and sharp. It looked like a needle. It was actually called Needle! Discovering such a fact had made the little girl giggle so hard she had hiccups for the rest of the day.

The girl loved Needle, and she loved the woman who held it. Arya was always willing to play with her, always willing to talk to her when she was sad or scared or worried. Arya was her best friend.

“Ha!” Arya laughed, as Lord Gendry went flying to the floor once more.

He wielded a warhammer, one that was taller than most of the women at court! How Lord Baratheon picked it up, the little girl did not know - she would need herself a Needle, she realised, perched on the stone wall.

Gendry huffed, but a smirk played out on his face as he glanced up at Arya. His eyes were always so kind, no matter how many times she beat him. That was love, the little girl had blurted out once. Arya had called her perceptive at that, but she wasn’t sure what it had meant.  _ Perhaps I should ask Grand Maester Waylon _ , she pondered.

The little girl wanted to have a go, so so badly. She wanted to spar with Arya and Lord Gendry and every other knight willing to have a go. Mother had said she was too young, too little. Soon, she had said. She was six, with already a winter behind her. Soon, it seemed, wasn’t fast enough

The girl jumped down from the wall, falling the length of her own body as the bottom of her dress captured the dirt of the gardens. Arya offered her best disciplinary frown, but both of the girls knew it was no use and smiled. She squared herself in between the two adults, looking up expectantly at them as they murmured to each other.  Lord Gendry wouldn’t be here long - only for the Paramount’s meeting at the start of the annual Grand Council. After that, he would return home, to Storm’s End, to his wife, the Lady Cyrenna of House Swann. Arya always looked sad when he left.

But when the girl looked up, Arya’s smile was wide.

“Don’t get me started on the meeting tomorrow, Gendry, I’m here for the whole thing! Why Bran put me forward for the vote, I haven’t a clue!” Arya chuckled, though her voice was crisp with anxiety. This was only the second of these week-long councils, and Arya had told the girl the last one had been fraught with discussions of succession.

“Yeah, well good luck with that,” Gendry smirked. “At least you haven’t got your sister yapping the next seat over about every… little… thing! She’s meant to be representing the Vale - and Lord Arryn already sent his approval by letter!”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, Sansa excels at that. I’d rather they wheel Sweetrobin in his sickbed to the council table instead of her nonsense. What’s she been like about Daenerys’ code?”

“She fucking hates it, obviously,” Gendry replied bluntly.

Arya smacked him on the arm as she glanced down, the little girl up to her waist still beaming brightly despite the politics and foul language.

“Not in front of her, you idiot!” Arya said harshly.

Gendry smiled down at her apologetically as Arya scruffed at her head, tangling the threads which made up her braids. Today, her mother had wrapped her silver hair into a halo around her small head, for it was already too long to simply be left down untouched.

“Can I train with you tomorrow, Arya?” The little girl asked excitedly, as the adults abandoned the topic of politics. Arya once again shook her head, as she had done every other day she had asked. The girl frowned, but the brown-haired woman knelt so she was face to face with her. 

“Soon, okay?” Arya promised. “But more importantly, sunshine, are you not late for supper?”

The little girl’s eyes widened in horror, remembering that Ser Davos had told her not to linger in the gardens. Her mother was expecting her. She sputtered and panicked for a millisecond, earning a smile from the two in front of her, before sprinting off in the direction of the door with only a quick wave and an air-kiss to her favourite auntie.

Her dress fluttered behind her as she bolted into the castle, her little hands pushing at those who were unfortunate enough to stand in her warpath to dinner. A few yelps, here and there, from apologetic servants and guards, but mostly laughs. This was the third time this week she was late.  As she turned a sharp corner, the girl stumbled and crashed into metal armour - armour that was different to everyone else's. When she looked up, a pair of green eyes encased in crow’s feet looked back. She recognises him immediately, a loyal lord of her mother.

“Lord Lannister! I am so sorry!” The girl exclaimed, offering her best curtsy to the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands.

“It is quite alright, Princess,” The Lannister lord said with a smile.

She was going to be late! She nodded her head once more and rushed past him. He gave her a warm wave, the black obsidian of his hand obvious amidst his steel armour. The girl had heard it used to be gold, like his hair, but this confused her, for his hair was grey. Maybe he had just gotten his hand dirty.  Nevermind his hair, though, for the woman behind him had the hair of a tree! The girl looked up in amazement as she brushed past, sparing a glance at the woman’s bright green hair. The girl thought it was wonderful - perhaps she could dye her silver hair green one day. Or maybe blue! The girl giggled as she pondered it.

As more important people filed out behind Lord Jaime, the girl realised that they all must be here for the meeting too, to help her mother with the laws… and whatever other stuff important people talked about. All of them were here, in fact, except Lord Arryn, who had sent his wife in his stead. Lady Sansa was so pretty, but she never smiled at her when she came by to say hello, which made the little girl sad.

She burst into her chambers, the red door already half-open just behind the stream of fleeing lords. Grey Worm offered her a warm nod as she rushed past him, but the girl was so excited to see her busy mother that she forgot to return the smile. The girl squealed, expecting her mother to be sat at the large table by the fireplace, but found that she wasn’t.

“Mama?” The girl called out.

She was greeted by silence.

The room  _ looked  _ occupied, the girl thought. The fireplace raged with the warm flicker of flame, and the doors to the balcony were thrown open, the red curtains framing them blowing gently in the sunset breeze. The girl inched towards the table near the fireplace, already full of food for her and her mother to munch on. She grazed her fingers over the table as she walked around it, resisting the urge to grab a bite and tuck in. Instead, she walked to the balcony, to where her brother flew freely in the sky and roared in delight as she came into view. But before she could step out properly into the fresh air, a figure jumped out of the curtain, frightening the little girl to no ends.

“Got you!” The woman shrieked out in laughter, pulling the little girl from the floor and into her arms.

The girl screamed, but her fear turned to laughter, and then the girl was no longer afraid. She was never afraid - not when her mother was there to protect her. She looked up to see her mother’s lovely face and smiled back as the older blonde beamed.

“You’re late, darling,” Her mother said, though any sternness was forgotten when the corners of her lips curled in amusement.

“You’re early!” The girl squealed excitedly, her smile wide.

The woman plonked her gingerly in the seat at the far end of the table. “Oh really? I don’t think that’s how it works! Queens are never early!”

The girl huffed. She really needed to be on time more.

Her mother sat at the other end, pulling her braided hair back from her chest and face as she prepared to eat. They always tried to have supper together, at least, for her mother’s duties were so demanding. The girl looked longingly at her mother’s crown of braids, jealous that she could get them so thick and intricate. They were beautiful. All the other ladies at court thought it beautiful too and tried to copy her. They could never do them as well, and her mother always found a way to stand above the rest. The little girl liked it when she added small Dothraki bells because it made her sound like a melody when she walked by.  It didn’t matter about the hair though, for the little girl knew that none in the realm matched her mother’s beauty. Or her kindness. Except for Gendry, the girl did not know how kind the lords were, not truly. Her mother always warned her about dangerous men - men who wanted things, who wanted nothing but power. The girl couldn’t understand why.

“So, what are you going to talk about tomorrow?” The girl asked sweetly as she tucked into her stew. “Is it going to be fun?!”

Her mother chuckled. “Fun isn’t the word I’d use… Important things, dear. I have a new code of justice I’d like to see them use.”

“I don’t know what that is,” The girl said, her mouth full of beef and gravy.

Her mother scowled at her bad table manners.

“Are you going to talk about letting me ride Drogon!?” The girl asked as the thought sprang to mine, her mouth empty this time.

“Darling, we’ve discussed this. You’re too little. When you’re older.”

“I get older every second!” The girl retorted, but her mother simply rolled her eyes.

She wanted to ride a dragon, just like her mother. She wanted to be high in the sky, looking down at the fields below. It would just be so amazing, to be so little, at the top of the world.

“So what  _ will _ you talk about?!” The girl asked again.

Her mother sighed. “The lords have some… concerns. I want to create a position for a man to dispense justice fairly and free from politics. A position where the people can choose who fills it.”

“And why would anyone say no to that!? You’re the Queen, and the stuff you said about the other day is bad and needs fixing! Why would they not want to fix it?” The girl said with a childish passion, her young mind confused.

The silver-haired Queen before her sighed, her eyes focused on the food in front of her. “They will come around, eventually. Things that don’t bend will break.”

“Like a sword?!” The girl replied excitedly, soaking in her mother’s wisdom.

“Yes, my sweet, like a sword,” Her mother responded softly.

The girl tucked back into her food, but her gaze drifted more than once to the fireplace - to the mantelpiece atop of it. On it, sat a sword in a dark sheath, its hilt blackened and odd-looking, but it's steel untouched by whatever had caused the deformity of its handle. Her father’s sword, her mother had told her. She would wield it someday - though the girl had decided that bit, not her mother.

When the girl looked back to the table, her mother looked at her sadly, having caught her wandering eyes. The girl didn’t like it when her mother looked sad. Sometimes people would say nasty things about her father, and her mother would always be so furious, but she would wait until she was at the table to weep about it. Little Edmure Tully had once called her a widow Queen, claiming she wore too much black, and it would never get her another husband. For that, Arya had slapped him across the back of the head.

“I love you, you know that right?” Her mother said quietly across the table. The girl nodded enthusiastically. “Everything I do, I do for you. Never forget that.”

“I won’t!” The girl replied with a toothy smile.

The girl had never been more sure of anything in her life. Her mother loved her more than anything in the world. More than her own life. She knew how much her mother loved her kingdom, loved her father. The girl wished he was here too, to love her too, but her mother said she would not see him because he was in the sky. Maybe if she flew atop of Drogon, she would find him, the little girl wondered.

She thought she knew what he looked like. A man always visited her when she dreamt - black of hair, a sullen and long face, mournful eyes. Everyone else said she looked just like him, like a Stark, save for her mother’s colouring. He always said nice things too: how much he loved her, how proud he was, how fast she was growing. It always left her in tears when she woke up and left her mother in tears when she told her about it.

A knock on the door interrupted their evening feast and the little girl’s ever-saddening thoughts. Grey Worm peeked cautiously through the door, a polite smile on his face as he caught her eye.

“Good evening, Grey Worm!” The girl greeted him in Valyrian, but from the small snicker of her mother and her Lord Commander, she knew she had messed up the pronunciation.

_ Whatever _ , the girl dismissed,  _ I’ll learn it eventually! _

“Your Grace, an argument has broken out in the feast hall. Lord Florent and the Prince of Dorne.” He continued.

“About what?” Her mother asked incredulously.

“You, I believe,” Grey Worm confirmed.

Her mother huffed and stood from her seat. “For crying out loud, do those two have nothing better to do than trying to get their sons by my side? And Yronwood! I legitimised Oberyn Martell’s daughter, arranged their marriage and he thinks to reach further!? He’s not the Prince of Dorne, she is! Are men never satisfied?!”

The girl sat patiently at the other end of the table as her mother complained. She glanced back at her daughter, aware that she had angrily murmured too much in front of her. She didn’t need to know this stuff. Not at this age, she had said on numerous occasions.

She drifted over to where the girl sat and knelt next to her, her black-blue dress spilling onto the floor. She grabbed her small hand delicately in her own but her face was torn - desperate to stay by her daughter’s side for the evening, but mindful of her duty still.

“I’m sorry, darling. A Queen never stops, and it seems my kingdom is my youngest child.” She said with a half-smile. “I will try and see you before bed.”

“Do you promise?” The girl asked.

“I promise I will try,” She replied. “We will go out to the woods tomorrow with Ghost, after the Paramount’s final meeting. How does that sound?”

The girl smiled. “That sounds perfect. We need some fresh air, Mama.”

Her mother smiled again, softer this time, her brows furrowed in an emotion the little girl could not quite place.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Her mother asked quietly as she rose, the sound of Grey Worm clicking the door shut barely registering with either of them.

The small girl sprang from the table and towards the bookshelf by the fire, intent on occupying herself for the time being while her mother worked. She pulled out her favourite: a thick parchment piece titled only ‘King Jon’. Her mother looked on as she pulled it out and placed it on the rug in front of the fire.  Her mother looked so magical, the girl observed as she looked back, especially with the light of the fireplace on her face. Her mother walked closer, planting a firm kiss on her daughter’s braided head before heading to the red oak door. She spared a glance behind her, as the little girl grew enraptured with the book, as she had done so many nights before.

“Goodnight, Lyanna, my love,” Her mother called out sweetly, before gently closing the door behind her.

The Princess sat cross-legged on the comfortable animal rug, her little fingers grazing over the ink as she slowly read through the pages. Some of the words were hard, some she did not understand, and the writing of the first couple of pages was near impossible to read with the terrible handwriting. The pages at the back were empty - left for Queen Daenerys the First of Her Name, and Queen Lyanna the First after that. So many pages to fill! Princess Lyanna could not even begin to think about how she would fill them.

Her eyes stayed glued to the book for what seemed like hours, the night seemingly overtaking the sunset behind her in the window. She reread the pages about her father, of all the amazing stuff he had done. It was comforting. Lyanna liked to read it. She looked back up to the burned blade above her and imagined him holding it. Eventually, the ink began to blur, and her small violet eyes grew tired and incapable of reading on. Her head rested softly on the rug beneath her as sleep claimed her, her braids coming loose as her sleeping body tossed.

The moon carried her to bed, she thought, soft white streaks dancing above her and itching her face as she flew through the dark room. Just like her dream, she realised - for that night, Princess Lyanna dreamt that she was a dragon, flying high in the air above the city, her dark wings touching the ever-glowing stars in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a few of you were asking in the last few chapters about my future plans, considering this fic has drawn to its inevitable conclusion. As you may have read on those comments, this is what I’ve got planned:
> 
> \- Jonerys Long Night in progress (Titled ‘An Ocean Away’), I did get a bit of flak for the first two rough chapters I posted, so don’t be surprised if the fic disappears and I repost! I promise it won’t be as depressing and bitter as this lmao
> 
> \- I have a number of one-shots sat in a folder, some finished, some not, set in the aftermath of the Night Gathers universe. Expect those up in the coming weeks - I will make it part of a series that will also include this fic so that it can be found easily
> 
> -ALSO more excitingly, a sequel for this fic is in the early planning stages (as of September 2020), and I do hope to maybe start that by the end of the year! It will be revolving around our lovely Princess of Dragonstone, with dangers rising in the midst of Queen Daenerys' hard-won peace - both magical and political!  
~~
> 
> I am really grateful to everyone who has stuck this out until the end, and those who offered both kind words and constructive criticism. This fic really has helped me cope with all this pandemic business, and has been a source of enjoyment and motivation in such uncertain times. Thank you so much - I really hope I’ve provided a good read or at least a different version to what played out on our screens last April!
> 
> And with that, my friends, our watch has ended.


End file.
